by Mary Burton
I thought for a long time about my options. The idea of making nice with Scraper turned my stomach, but in the end, I knew the only way I was going to get what I needed was to make peace. Even if Dallas sold me his property, the zoning would still be a problem if Scraper wanted it to be. Scraper had to think I was giving up the fight, and nothing would make him happier than thinking he’d finally beaten me. And I knew the perfect thing to take him as a peace offering.
Dallas did what he said he’d do and dug a hole for the carcasses. I went out that evening and threw the stinking animals into it, except for one opossum. I took the opossum to my kitchen and took a set of piecrusts out to thaw, until I remembered that everybody knows shepherd’s pies are my go-to food gift. I put the crusts back and made a stew instead, heavy on the beans and spices the way Scraper liked. I added chunks of the ’possum at the tail end of the cooking process, for the gamey flavor he liked. Who’s to say if they cooked all the way through or not?
The next evening, I put the stew in a disposable container, wiped it down, put it in a gift bag, and drove up to Scraper’s. The catapult was still in the yard, aimed at my house.
“Well, well, well,” Scraper said when he answered my knock. “If it ain’t Mrs. Robinson. To what do I owe this honor?” I ignored the sarcasm and braced myself for what I was about to say, hoping I wouldn’t actually choke on the words.
“Scraper, I think we need to call a truce,” I said quietly. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. I shifted my feet and looked at the floor like I practiced. “Look, I handled things badly when we were married, and God knows I’m still doing it. You bring out the absolute worst in me, but this isn’t how I want to live.”
“You call that an apology?” he asked. He started to close the door, but I stuck my arm out.
I felt my face get red, but I took a deep breath and pushed against the door with my free hand, so he couldn’t close it. “Scraper, wait!”
I made my voice hitch just a little, like I was about to cry. “Tom Slaughter was a mistake, and I know I’ve only made it worse by parading my… friends in front of you. You don’t deserve that.” I looked down, hoping I looked sorry. When I looked back up, I had managed to wet my eyes just a little. Scraper stared at me silently for a full ten seconds, then reached out and took the stew. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s stew. I was going to make a pie like old times, but I didn’t have any crusts.”
I swear the man smiled just a bit. “Well, it ain’t pie, but you know I like your cooking.” He stretched out a hand. “Truce?”
I grabbed it and shook it. “Truce.”
They found Scraper a few days later, sprawled in his bed, vomit all over everything. There was an empty, disposable container in the trash and a dirty bowl in the sink. I didn’t hear about it until Frances Townsend, fresh from Sheriff Tate’s office where she worked part-time, came into my office and said, “Oh Stella, I am so sorry to hear about Scraper.”
“What do you mean?” I asked innocently, coming around my desk.
She laid a soft, plump hand on my shoulder. “Oh, honey, they haven’t told you yet?” I shook my head. “Scraper passed away a couple of days ago.”
I sat back in my chair and stared. I opened my mouth and closed it a couple of times to make sure she knew I was shocked.
“What do you mean?”
Frances nodded sympathetically, but I knew she was relishing every detail and would spread it around town faster than green grass through a goose. “It’s such a shock, I know. Apparently, it was food poisoning.” She gave me the details of what they found, while I continued to look shocked.
“That poor man,” I said. “Bless his heart, when we were married he was always trying to get me to cook up some poor animal he’d scraped off the road, saying it was still good. Of course, I flat out refused. Everybody knows it isn’t safe.” I wiped an imaginary tear from my eyes.
“Oh, Stella, I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head. “I just need to be alone for a while, I think, Frances.”
“Of course, sugar. You just call me when you’re ready to hear the details for the service.”
Frances gave me an awkward hug and left the office. I looked down at the aerial plans for the new community and smiled.
SHADOW MAN, by Brad Harper
“Tell me a story, Grandma. I’d like one with a witch in it this time.”
Seven-year-old Tommy was bargaining with his Grandmother Buford, trying his best to hold off his bedtime. There was a monster under his bed, he was sure of it. Sometimes in the middle of the night he heard a noise like little claws scrabbling on the smooth floor. Once when half-awake, he thought he saw a claw peek out as he leaned over, but whatever it was jerked back into darkness when he gasped.
So he decided the later he went to bed, the faster he would go to sleep and the less time for the monster to get him. It was well known that monsters that live in closets and beneath beds only feed on those awake. He also hoped that a good story from his grandmother would help him escape into dreamland as soon as his head hit the pillow.
“What story would that be?” asked Grandma in her creaking rocking chair, her faded black shawl around her shoulders, her wrinkled face pink and shiny by the fire. “How about Hansel and Gretel? That has a witch in it.”
Tommy pouted, his lower lip protruding into what Grandma Buford called his Liverwurst Lip. “That’s a children’s story, Grandma! I’m too old for that. Tell me a real story.”
Grandma spread her hands in mock surrender. “All right, Big Boy, a real story it is, but be careful what you wish for! Now go dress for bed, and I’ll tell you a true story about a robber who stole too much. It’s a family legend, and part of it happened in this very house, so I reckon it’s time you heard it.”
“In this house?” He asked, his mouth open, his lip returned to its normal size. “Is there a witch in it?”
“Oh yes, dear. A witch, a robber, magical potions, demons, and your great-great-grandfather. Now get ready, young man, before I change my mind!”
Tommy hurried up the stairs to his room, careful not to spill any wax from his candle on the carpeted staircase, and soon he was back, dressed in his red flannel nightshirt and thick woolen socks, his blue eyes shining with excitement. “I’m ready, Grandma! Now start, please?”
Grandma smiled at his sudden outburst of good behavior as she poured herself a glass of elderberry wine from the dusty crystal decanter. For her rheumatism, of course. She pondered how to begin as she studied the firelight darting through the dark liquid in her glass. “Long ago in the bayou there lived a highwayman…”
“A robber, Grandma, you said a robber!” Tommy said, his lower lip peeking out once more.
“Yes, Tommy, a highwayman is a kind of robber, one who steals from travelers using his sword and pistol to make them give up their money or anything else of value when he stops them on the road. Now, be quiet and listen, or I’ll stop right here.”
Little Tommy tucked his feet under him and held his knees tight, his eyes wide open as his grandmother told her tale, the low fire casting her face in alternating shadow and light. Soon her soft voice carried him to a time before even this ancient storyteller was born.
“This highwayman was a very greedy man who took from everyone he caught. Others would not rob widows or poor people, but this man would take the last penny from a starving child. He was hated for he was cruel, but feared even more, because he was very cruel.”
“How was he cruel, Grandma?”
“He once robbed a poor box in a church, which was bad enough, but when the priest caught him, he cut off the priest’s nose before he ran away laughing. No one dared follow him into the night, and he got away scot-free.”
“Nobody tried to catch him, ever?”
“Now don’t rush me Tommy, I’m getting to that, but no one did for a very long time even though there was a large bounty on his head.”
“What’
s a bounty?”
“A reward for his capture. Old Man Buford, your great-great-grandfather, put it there after he was robbed at sword point. The robber was so feared no one even spoke his name, so he was called the Shadow Man, for he was never seen in daylight.”
“Shadow Man,” Tommy whispered and shivered by the fire, hugging his knees tighter.
“That’s right, Shadow Man. He was always dressed in black, rode on a swift, black horse, and no one ever saw him coming. He was so feared that when he yelled out ‘Stand and deliver!’ his victims never dared fight back, not even full-grown men, and they all gave him their money straightaway.”
When Grandma said “stand and deliver,” Tommy imagined the Shadow Man standing before him on a dark road, the blade of his sword glimmering beneath a pale moon, inches from Tommy’s own face. He wiggled in delight, and his heart beat faster. “So who did fight back? The sheriff? Did he form a posse?”
“Even the sheriff was too afraid, Tommy, and no one would join his posse if he’d tried. Now be patient!
“In those days there were witches in the bayous here about. Some were bad, but most just wanted to be left alone. The witch in our story was named Spinner because of the magical dreams her potions would spin. They said she spun those spells just like a spider spins its web. Some dreams she made would tell the future, some would bring good luck, and some eased the passage into the next world where all dreams end.
“One moonless night, Shadow Man came to Spinner’s shack while she was out gathering herbs and took all the money she had been given for her bottles filled with dreams. It was a lot of gold, I can tell you, and when she found it gone, the sound of her anger frightened the swamp into silence for miles around. I’m told even the ’gators hid in their dens at the sound of her curses.”
“Wow! Nothing scares a ’gator, ’cept a bigger ’gator! Then what happened?”
Grandma Buford laughed, enjoying how her grandson was hanging on every word. She couldn’t stay angry at him, no matter how much he interrupted.
“I was getting to that, now hush!” she said, feigning sternness. “Spinner must have gone on caterwauling for half the night before she finally hushed up. They say the silence was scarier than the sound of her screams. For three days and nights she read her books of dark magic and summoned demons to guide her as she plotted her revenge on Shadow Man, for she knew that only he would dare to steal her gold.”
Tommy was now at her feet, his back to the fire as he stared up at Grandma Buford, imagining a witch far off in the bayous talking to horned demons with yellow teeth and sulfurous breath. The dancing shadows in the parlor seemed to grow horns of their own and he started when a log in the fire suddenly popped. He thought of a fire much hotter far below where demons lived and wasn’t sure he wanted Grandma to go on. But he swallowed and stayed silent, afraid to break her spell.
“When those three days had passed,” Grandma said, leaning forward and speaking in a low voice, “the smoke was still thick over her shack as Spinner brewed a black liquid in her large and glowing kettle. When she was finished, she went to Old Man Buford, and after a long private conversation, she returned to her little house in the swamp, driving the Buford family carriage with its two matched mares. Meanwhile, Old Man Buford paid for some of his servants to go to the local taverns and tell stories about a love affair between his son and a mysterious young lady who lived near the bayou.
“Shadow Man laughed as he spent Spinner’s gold on gambling and other things that robbers like, but which you are too young to understand, and though he had stolen a lot of gold, he soon found he was poor again. Then Shadow Man heard rumors that Old Man Buford’s son, your great-grandfather, had a lady friend he visited once a month in a cottage at the edge of the swamp. The stories said he would ride to her on the first night the moon was full, which was in fact that very night. Shadow Man smiled as he sharpened his sword, cleaned his pistol, and blackened his face to make himself ready. Then he muffled the hooves of his horse so that he could move without making a noise and rode out to wait in the dark, along the trail to the secret cottage the Buford servants had talked about.
“Around midnight the Buford carriage came down the trail just as he’d expected, and when the highwayman blocked the road, it stopped, the coachman throwing up his hands when Shadow Man shouted out, “Stand and deliver!” as he always did. He threw open the door of the carriage, expecting to see a frightened rich man inside, but found Spinner instead, smiling at him. ‘Give me back my gold and live,’ she said, ‘or you will never see the sun again.’
“Shadow Man laughed at her, ‘I don’t see the sun now, you old hag, and soon neither will you!’
“With that he ran his sword through her, but instead of blood, he found straw, for the witch had turned into a scarecrow right before his eyes! He looked up to the coachman and saw her in the driver’s seat just before she dashed a black potion into his eyes.”
“What happened then, Grandma? Did Shadow Man die?”
“No one knows, Tommy. But the next day Spinner returned here to the Buford Mansion driving the carriage and carrying a small birdcage covered in black cloth. When she met with Old Man Buford he refused to give her the reward for the highwayman, saying he didn’t want anything to do with black magic. In a fury, Spinner cursed him and his descendants with sleepless nights. Then she opened the cage, threw it in the wine cellar and stomped out of the mansion.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, Old Man Buford had change of heart the next morning about cheating a witch, so later he sent men with the reward to her shack. But her house was gone.”
“Where was it?”
“Don’t know. It was as though the swamp ate her, the house and maybe even Shadow Man up.”
“That’s a great story, Grandma! It’s much better than Hansel and Gretel. But what’s a descendent?”
Grandma Buford sighed. “It means those who come after. Since Old Man Buford was your great-great-grandfather, that means you.”
“I love the story. Will you tell it to me again tomorrow night?”
“Perhaps, but now it’s time for bed, Tommy. Don’t worry Big Boy, I’ll tuck you in.”
Tommy’s eyes grew wide. “I’m scared to go to bed.”
“Why is that, dear?”
Tommy looked down at the floor, doing his best to act like a big boy. “Because I have a monster under my bed.” He swallowed. “He scares me!”
Grandma smiled, showing the half-dozen or so teeth she had left. “I think I have an answer for that. For every poison, there’s an antidote. For every curse, there’s a cure. Trust me.”
The procession to bed went as smoothly as it ever did, and finally, after a drink of water, a trip to the bathroom, and a goodnight kiss, Tommy was in bed. Before blowing out his candle, Grandma Buford vanished and then quickly returned with a birdcage covered in faded black cloth. She placed it on the floor beside his bed and opened the cage door. “This will keep you safe.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“It catches monsters.” She kissed him one more time and left.
Tommy began to doze off, when suddenly he sat bolt upright. Was it his imagination, or did he hear scuffling beneath the bed?
He took a deep breath and looked over the edge and down into the darkness. A small, dark claw extended from beneath the bed, and Tommy’s heart hammered as two glowing eyes blinked back at him. Then the eyes turned towards the cage and narrowed. There was a sharp squeak, and the claw and eyes withdrew with a quick scrabbling sound that quickly faded away, never to return.
Perhaps Shadow Man recognized the cage designed by a witch’s spell to imprison him and was frightened away. Or perhaps another kind of spell, cast by a loving grandmother’s story, banished the monster in Tommy’s mind.
I’ll leave it to you to decide, but from then on Tommy slept peacefully through the night, undisturbed.
COUNTRY SONG GONE WRONG, by Sherry Harris
Guest Author
>
For the first time since Sarah Winston had started her garage sale business she was stuck doing a sale she didn’t want to do. “Are you sure you want to sell all of this?” Sarah asked her client. She stood in an enormous family room.
“You bet your cotton pickin’ heart I do,” June Baby Pickens replied.
Sarah looked over at her friend, Carol Carson. They’d known June since before she was June Baby Pickens, the famous country western song writer married to Roydon Pickens, the famous country singer. The couple lived in a mansion in Virginia horse country with rolling hills and the Shenandoah Valley as a backdrop.
“Even Roydon’s platinum record award?” Carol asked.
“Yes. You can’t run off with the nanny and disappear without expecting to be humiliated in return. Mark it one dollar.”
Roydon had taken off almost a week ago. June had found a note saying he’d fallen for the nanny. That he was sorry—as if that would fix things.
“Where are the kids?” Sarah asked.
“I sent them to my mom’s house in Monterey.” Monterey is where they’d all met nineteen years ago. June had sung in a little bayside bar. Her voice had been good enough for that, but not good enough for Nashville. Roydon, who was twenty years older, had been there on vacation. They’d fallen for each other and soon June was living in Virginia writing hits for Roydon like “Take My Heart, Leave the Dog” and “I Didn’t Know Stupid Until I Married You.”
June swiped at her eyes. Sarah worried about the dark circles. She’d gotten used to seeing June on TV with big hair, dripping in makeup and diamonds, Roydon at her side. June had asked Sarah to run a garage sale for her to get rid of what Roydon had left behind. Which, looking around the house, was almost everything. Very odd. Sarah had brought Carol along to help with the sale and keep June company.
“He made me a cliché. I hate him.” June gave up swiping at the tears. “I don’t hate him. I still love him. More than a damn viper loves its poison.” She paused, screwed her face into a thoughtful look. “Maybe I should write that song. Listen to me. Everything sounds like a song to me.”