Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  “Have mercy! Hank!” Jesse yelled. “What next? He’s going to kill that poor Doc fella. Somebody needs to warn him!”

  “Not him,” Hank muttered, his eyes fixed on the road like hard stones.

  “M-M-Man,” Tommy stuttered. “We s-s-should’ve done this back wh-when we were in-in h-h-high school. We d-d-did nothing compared to this. I thought st-st-stealing Christmas decorations was sending me straight to the p-p-pit.”

  “I’m in,” Stroke said.

  “Might as well.” Curly stood and stretched. “I could use another pickle.”

  Hank took the gas from Spell’s pump, leaving money tucked underneath the door for it. He also wrote him a note, thanking him for the root beer and pickles, and told him no one had found his eye. When they returned to the fields, Hank went back inside that devil’s skeleton and removed all the pretty pictures off the walls. He had Curly tuck them away in the van. He wanted the one of Delilah more than any worldly possession anyone could offer him.

  Hank smiled and whooped as he poured gas in the house. The deadly rich fumes filled the air in every room. Hank sent a small prayer up that, even though it was soaked, it would still catch like a wild fire. He wanted every memory, every beating, every tear and tremor to burn up with it. He prayed that mean ole devil was as superstitious as an Italian Catholic, because if he were, he would feel the heat coming for him.

  He would burn up every horrendous memory he ever left there. Every harsh touch, every whipping and lashing and breaking. Hank was going to sit there and smile while he watched the devil’s home explode in flames. He wouldn’t own it any longer.

  The time for reminiscing and reminding was over. She would never think about this graveyard again. She’d never see it again. He would buy the property, build whatever she wanted, fill it with designer dresses, sweat pants, and oversized sweatshirts, and fine china, along with chipped antiques, and he’d cover it in roses and a dozen other flowers, just for her. She could pick and choose whatever the hell she wanted.

  Just then they saw a slumped-over shadow make its way toward them. Spell clapped his hands and kicked his feet together as he moved down the street.

  “What do we have here?” He rubbed his hands back and forth. “I’d say it’s a mighty fine night for a camp out. A might fine night, boys! Let’s roast us some weenies! What do we have here?”

  Every one of those boys dumped gasoline, spreading it like seeds of growth and freedom. Hank took two matches out of his pocket and struck each flame to life. He watched them glow hot in the darkness for just a moment before he flicked one toward the house. He flicked the other one right after, and they didn’t catch right away. He wasn’t sure if they would, but soon enough, the place was smoking.

  It was a slow, steady heat. Hank’s favorite flavor—sweet with a bitter kick, something that melted deliciously slow in your mouth so you were sure to taste it.

  The fire started like a bonfire with just a few sticks and then caught like fireworks in the night air. It was like a big torch for all those women who didn’t have voices. It smoked all those ghosts from the grave, sending them on their way to that mean ole devil’s bed, so he’d never forget them. As the flames started to rise higher and higher, Hank couldn’t wait for it to blow up. When the windows started to explode, what was left of them, it smelled like Christmas in autumn.

  One memory, one fear, one beating, two beatings, three beatings, a hundred beatings, two hundred tears and three hundred fears…catch, catch, catch, whoosh, all up in flames.

  Burn, baby, burn, Hank chanted. The guys danced around it like Indians celebrating some spiritual ritual, putting an end to their visions and confusions. They had been purged of all those demons, those things that frightened them the most. They weren’t afraid anymore, and along with those women, whoever they were, they too were coming for those mean ole devils.

  Hank was just getting started. Hank was marking his territory. He was going to write his name in the ashes and say: Don’t worry. I’ll call you. Hank was riding away, giving them the finger. He was pinning them down and gloating. He was putting them under his feet, taking everything back they stole from his Delilah Mae and every other in her shoes. The nice pairs and the busted ones. No separations for Hank. All were created equal.

  As Spell walked down the street, kicking his legs in the air and hollering, “Glory, glory, Hallelujah,” he suddenly stopped and bent down.

  “Well, lookie here,” he hollered and held his hand up. “I finally found my eye! I can see! Oh, and boys, don’t drink too much of that root beer…it can cause some awful bad forgetting spells.” He howled. “I sure did miss my eye! I can see…I can see…”

  Hank could see right along with him, as clear as if he were looking through a translucent glass eye.

  It didn’t matter anymore to him who she was. It was regardless, just regardless, a moot point in the midst of chaos. He vowed, while he watched those flames rise higher and higher, that he was going to love Delilah Mae Turner for the rest of his life. And come what may, he was going to save Pistollette.

  He had plans to make, he had a few pictures to dig from the grave box, he had a few ghosts to have a long- time-coming chat with, and he had a few mean ole devils to pay him a visit to.

  Pistol heard her phone ring three times. Then the call ended. A few seconds later, three more rings. She put her feet on the floor and looked at the clock on the table. Too late or too early, depending on your point of view. She wrapped herself up in a warm sweater and made her way to the nearest payphone close to her place. The city lights shone like diamonds in the night. She punched in the number and, just a few breathes later she said, “Hey, doll.”

  “Hey, doll. You been sleeping all right?”

  “I’m sleeping all right enough. How about you?” Pistol surprised herself by yawning. She rarely yawned; there was never enough time for it. It gave away boredom or weakness, neither of what she was.

  “I’m sleepin’ just fine, baby doll, don’t you worry about me. But you, well, you know that river in Egypt? Oh, what’s it called? De-nial. I hear it’s for sale. I’m going to buy it just like I’m going to buy you sleeping just fine.” Light laughter. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re up. I wanted to know if you were up for some fishin’ in the dark.”

  “I’m always up for some fishin’ in the dark. What we going fishing for, baby doll?” Pistol wrapped the sweater around her tighter, the cool air chilling her to the bone.

  “Some catfish. You know how I just love to fry ’em up. But here’s the thing, our Honey Hole done moved on us, and we going to have to chase it up a ways. That old river is just rushing, moving fast, and eroding everything in its way.”

  “Oh, hell! I thought you pleaded to the river voodoo to keep our Honey Hole right where it was. Why in the hell ain’t it listening?”

  “Rivers will be rivers. Sometimes nature wins over everything else, you know? So, shall I pick you up in thirty?”

  “Make it twenty.”

  “Oh, and should we dress in our old tattered rags, or the purty dresses? Please say the purty ones! Purty please!”

  “No, let’s not get them dirty before we even catch anything. Let’s just bring our tattered rags this time. No sense in putting all our good clothes on for nothin’.”

  “Well, shoot. Oh, but before I forget, doll. I have some news, real hot stuff, straight on down the line delicious. Last night in that old graveyard, some good ole boys done had them an old-fashioned camp out. Fires were just a-blazing, they were roastin’ weenies and makin’ s’mores. I heard they were even doing some kind of Indian ritual, dancing around the flames and chanting all sorts of things. It was a real humdinger of a shebang.”

  Pistol grinned, trying to hide her smile but failing miserably.

  “I know you’re grinning over there.” There were two grins on each side of the line now. “I wish I could’ve been there. I love me some roasted weenies. That mean ole grave keeper, he wasn’t too pleased, though. He had laid some
of those real good people to rest. And he didn’t like the idea of anyone disturbing them. Oh no, he sure didn’t. He put out a wanted sign asking all kinds of people about—who done it. As they say, dead men tell no tales, but you go poking around and sometimes those that are left behind, they tell the tales.”

  “Big pickins for that old grave keeper, huh?”

  “Well, let’s just put it this way. He’s offering more than a dollar and a bunch of pickles.”

  “See you in ten,” Pistol said.

  “Woo hoo,” they went, and the call went dead.

  That early morning sun crept through the windows, gold and shimmering. The autumn air had turned pink and crisp, just like a juicy apple. Fall was whistling in the wind, the smell of smoke concentrated inside the van.

  Jesse, Curly, Tommy, and Stroke were pumping gas and raiding the gas station’s snack shop while Dylan and Hank relaxed. Hank yawned and rubbed at his eyes. He took out a pack of spearmint gum and sat up to tap the back of Dylan’s seat.

  “Hey, Dylan, before we go any further. I just wanted to say thank you, for everything. You boys are the best bunch of brothers a guy could ask for.”

  “I wouldn’t think twice. When we were kids and I’d get grounded, you were the first one trying to break me out and escape with me to Wild Thang. When they found that lump in Perkie’s breast, you were the first one there. When my Daddy died I didn’t even have to say anything, you just seemed to know. And you were the first one there. That’s how we roll, brother.”

  “Yeah, but this is different, Dylan. You have a family. You need to make this your last stop. Perkie and the baby need you.”

  “You know, I never told you this, but after Judge Pilgrim and REO were killed, Tommy and I, well, we never got over the guilt of not being there. We should’ve been there. We are a posse, and posses always band together. No matter what. That’s why we never gave a damn if he thought we were all there or not. We were there. I took an oath to uphold justice. But the system fails when it’s bought. You know I don’t think those girls are wrong.

  “If I did, I would turn them in myself. They’re owed justice and a whole hell of lot more. And they don’t even feel like anything is owed to them. I’m in awe of them, really. I’m on their side, Hank. I just don’t want to see none of them get hurt.”

  Hank sat back and chewed the gum a little harder. “I guess I lied to myself all those years. I was supposed to be a man of integrity. I was supposed to do this and that…all these things I swore I’d never do. Give me justice or give me death! One look from her—” them “—and look at me. I’ve gone back on every standard and promise I’ve ever made. Am I really who I used to be?”

  Dylan laughed. “That’s not a lie, brother. That’s what you call love. I can’t say I know what you’re going through, I’ve never fell for two dames at once, but I know love. You know how much I hated getting up early on Sundays, going to church and church functions…I swore that wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t be that guy. Look at me now, polished shoes and a monkey suit, just about every Sunday. Perkie loves to go.”

  Hank smiled a little. The door to the van slid open and arms dumped junk food and legit root beer over the seats. The guys were still going through male bonding— that true and tried routine of being natural and not afraid of anything. They were high on life.

  Dylan leaned over the steering wheel while gazing out at the world, dreaming of his wife and baby. He mumbled to himself about how much he loved them and missed them. He loved that little baby more than life itself. Her smile alone could melt him down to a puddle of sap… “She’s pregnant!” he shouted.

  The guys all looked at each other. No one said it, but they were all thinking it—he was still having visions.

  “Dylan, is Perkie pregnant again?” Hank sat forward, closer to Dylan’s seat, studying the back of his head like it was going to explain what the hell was going on all of a sudden.

  “No.” Dylan shook his head. “Yesterday! God, I don’t remember much, but for some reason what I just said triggered something. I remember seeing Delilah as she walked into the leaning house. She stopped for a moment and there was something different about her. I knew what it was, but the words refused to come, and then I forgot. I remember. It was her stomach. It was like she had tucked a small balloon under her dress.

  “But she did something Perkie only did when she was pregnant. She touched her stomach like they do. Hank, is there something you’re not telling us? No, wait. It can’t be possible. You just met…” Dylan did the math in his head quickly. “She’d be too far along for the baby to be yours.”

  “Hank, you didn’t n-n-notice?” Tommy’s voice came out controlled, but a slight tremble fell on “notice.”

  It took a moment for the words to come to Hank. “No, the root beer…and I was preoccupied with other things.”

  “I guess that Doc must’ve been in the picture before you thought.” Curly blew out a deep breath.

  “This is so scandalous,” Jesse said, giving the seat a hardy punch. Tommy’s head bounced forward with the action. He turned around to protest the invasion of his headrest being bullied but didn’t say anything. His eyes were solid on Jesse’s before they passed over Hank’s. Compassion covered the aggravation.

  Hank hated it—they felt sorry for him. Poor, poor, pitiful Hank. He couldn’t just love one girl, no; he had to fall in love with two. But it didn’t matter to him. He was long past the point of matters.

  No one said anything after that for about twenty minutes. The van idled. Hank’s mind was working overtime. Finally, when every thought had been exhausted, he cleared his dry throat, the words almost sticking there like a ball of dough on the rise. The suffocation was only seconds away. “Bring me to Magnolia Springs. I have to see Pepsi.”

  Five hours later, they were back in Magnolia Springs. All of the guys, except for Hank, were starting to feel like gypsies heading nowhere fast. But Hank knew all those highways he was traveling were like veins to her body. She was outrunning her life, and he knew sooner or later, he’d find the direct route to her heart. She was worth every mile he was putting on.

  As soon as Pepsi opened the door, she shook her head and crossed her arms. She swore to sweet Jesus above that she wasn’t talking, and then she made them all something to eat. The entire time she prepared the food, Hank followed her around, doing his best to try and sweet talk her into giving him information.

  “Pepsi, you know I think you are the greatest women who ever lived. You are the most tender, caring, beautiful lady that has ever graced the earth. I love you as much as I do Delilah, you know. Can you just give me what she left for me? Please?”

  “Hank.” She slapped at the air. “I told you, baby. She made me promise not to give you anything until the right time.”

  “Where’s Freud?”

  “Visiting with a friend.”

  Hank sank into the chair, staring at Pepsi, who refused to look back at him. A door creaked open and he heard footsteps.

  Somewhere in the house a throat was cleared—the noise was vicious sounding, between a groan and sandpaper grating against wood. “Pepsi, give the boy his due. And I mean it.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and light, older, so contrary to the throat clearing. “Hank Huckleberry Rivers?”

  Hank was about to get up when Pepsi put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. Instead he said, “Yes, ma’am, that’d be me.”

  “Did your Daddy buy you your big college degree?”

  “No, ma’am. I paid for it myself. I’m still paying for it. My daddy is a preacher, ma’am. He doesn’t have a lot of money. My stepfather does. I worked hard, earned my grades and my financial burdens.”

  “All right then,” she said, and then she whistled.

  Freud came running down the hall into the kitchen, like he hadn’t seen Hank in years. Pepsi took a vase down from the shelf and handed Hank a white ribbon.

  “You sure you want to do this now?” Pepsi said, her eyes solid, unwavering. She was
giving him something irrevocable. He could feel it. Everybody stared at him.

  He took another piece of gum from his pocket and started champing down. He nodded. Freud sniffed the ribbon and stood up, waiting for Hank to follow. Hank followed him out of the kitchen, down the hall, and then pushed Delilah’s door open. He stood in the doorway for a few minutes looking down the hall for any sign of the woman who had spoken to him. She was gone, another ghost in the midst of thick clouds. When Hank turned around, Freud was sitting at attention in front of a bedside table. It was the side he had slept on.

  He bayed and danced in a circle for a minute.

  Hank sat on the bed, ran his fingers through his hair. He leaned over his legs, shutting his eyes tight. God Almighty, it could be a million things. It could be goodbye. It could all be nothing but a lie. What if she was pregnant with another man’s baby? What if Dylan was wrong? He was seeing things that weren’t there. They all were. He had considered all the possibilities on the ride over. But sitting there, he felt the gun to his chest, but this time, he was terrified of pushing back.

  “I’m real scared, buddy.” Hank patted Freud on his head, and in return the gentleman gave him his paw.

  It was now or never.

  Hank closed his eyes again, pulled the draw open. He opened his eyes, looked to the ceiling for a moment, out the window, out the door, at Freud again. Finally, he took a deep breath and put his hand in and found a square envelope. It was white and smelled just like her. He took his finger and ran it across the sealant, facing his future.

  Would the contents blow up in his face? Tick, tick, tick… Pull the trigger, Rivers.

  An ultrasound picture stared back at him, black and white and grainy. Delilah’s name was written on it. It had the name of her doctor: Doctor Amelia Grenade. Her partner’s name was next to it: Doctor Benjamin Houston. The dates were all correct.