by Chris Neeley
Seph stared at the tiny bowl of broth that almost had enough color in it to make it look like dirty dish water. His stomach growled loudly, already complaining.
"Nurse?" Seph said, he hoped pleasantly. He didn't want to tangle with this one.
The nurse stopped dead in the doorway, did a squeaking full turn, and raised her penciled-on eyebrows.
"Have my kids been here yet? Two teenagers, a boy and a girl?" Seph asked.
"Visiting hours are not until eleven a.m., Mr. Mayhew," she answered, clipping her words as if they were made of vinegar. She did the same little squeaking turn and marched out the door without another word.
"Bitch," Seph muttered. He couldn't wait until she was off duty. He had to take a piss but he'd be damned if he'd call her for help.
He shoved the bed table out of the way and leaned over to see what was in the drawers of the nightstand. He was in luck. A bed pan, a blue plastic one, was in the bottom drawer. He smirked slyly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, lifted the hospital gown and took aim. When he was finished, he carefully closed the drawer. He'd call Sarge in an hour or so and have her empty it. That would probably be the highlight of her boring day.
The phone on top of the nightstand caught his eye. They must have put it in before he woke up.
Seph glanced toward the door. The door was only open a couple of inches and he could see but a sliver of the hall. He saw a few people dressed in white and surgical green walked past but that was all.
He picked up the handset and read the instructions printed on the base of the phone. He dialed nine to get an outside line, heard some clicks, then the familiar sound of the dial tone hummed in his ear.
Seph dialed his own phone number.
He had to talk to James.
***
James dreamed.
Misty, ghost-like images floated behind his eyelids. His mother's smiling face across the breakfast table, Cliff arguing with him over football scores, Fern running through the front yard, her hair flying. Happier times, good times.
Aunt Doll's voice drifted into the moving images.
"Mind my words, James boy," she said, the image of her in her wheelchair at the nursing home rose up from somewhere deep in his mind. He could see every wrinkle in her face, her cottony hair glowing. "You mind now" she was saying, "You're gonna need to know these things someday. I can feel it in my bones." The vision of her faded. The glow remained.
The glowing light swirled into a pale red, then darkened to the color of blood. A form rose up, the shape of a young girl. She turned to look, her eyes glowing. Her face was beautiful, even in the ghastly red glow. Her hair was made of fire, the flames licking her cheeks in just the right places.
A sound intruded into the dream, a ringing. The girl in the dream roared and disappeared back down into the boiling lava from whence she had come.
James shifted in his sleep. Red color still glazed the inside of his eyelids.
Brring…
James jerked. He saw the bluish veins through the red glow that were usually invisible in his eyelids unless the sun was glaring through them.
Bringgg…
The sound was cut off and James drifted back down toward sleep as the sound changed from the ringing to a soft murmur, someone talking low. His head filled with cotton and the dream called to him.
"James." Someone was shaking him. "James, wake up."
He opened his eyes, then squinted. The sun was bright on his naked eye. "What? Fern?" He put a hand over his eyes, protecting them from the glare.
She shook him again, pulling on his arm. "Come on. Dad's on the phone. He's okay, but he says he has to talk to you." She tugged at him again. "Come on. He doesn't know how long he can talk."
That woke him up.
James kicked the footrest of the recliner shut, jumped out of the chair and raced to the phone. Just the person he wanted to talk to. He snatched the handset off the counter top where Fern had left it.
"Dad," he said into the phone, "Are you all right? What did they tell you?"
"I'm okay, James. I don't know how long they're going to keep me here. They said it was a mild heart attack. I guess what with everything that's happened, I shouldn't be surprised...." His father's voice trailed off for a second.
Fern came into the kitchen and stood beside James. Her eyes were still puffy and she looked a little stoned, but otherwise she looked okay, James thought. "Hey, Dad," James turned his back on Fern. "What were you trying to tell me? You know, when you collapsed?" James glanced over his shoulder. Fern was shuffling back into the living room. She's still spaced, he thought.
"That's why I called," his father spoke in his ear. "You've got to stop her, or at least stall her until I can get out of here."
"Who?"
"The girl. Listen, it's a long story, James, and I don't have time to go into it right now, but there's a girl that lives down under Big Hoary--I think she's crazy--but she's the one that's causing everything--"
"She caused the hogs to go wild and Georgia to attack Cliff, didn't she?" James cut in.
"You know?" His father sounded surprised. "I need you to go down to the clearing by the creek," his father continued, "The one just down the road from the house. Walk upstream a ways in the creek and you'll come to a big oak tree that hangs out over the water." Seph was talking fast now. "To the side of the oak are some rocks--Oh Lord, I hope no animals have got to it--under the rocks is a grave. I want you to dig it up."
"What?"
"I can't tell you all of it right now, James. Just go there and dig it up."
James heard a woman's voice in the background. She didn't sound too happy.
"I have to go, James. We'll finish this conversation later."
"But--" James heard a dial tone. His father had already hung up.
James placed the handset back on the hook.
Dig up a grave? A hidden grave, to boot. James shuffled back to the living room. It was good to know that his father was going to be all right. Even though they didn't see eye to eye, he was still his father. Fern was passed out on the couch again. He'd have to call Ms. Creager to come down and sit with her before he left the house. He flopped down in the recliner for a minute.
He needed to get his bearings.
He thought back to the things that his father had said while he was lying on the barn floor. 'My babe, give it the Mayhew name, dig it up.' Was that what he was going to find in the grave? A baby? His father's baby?
The truth of it struck James like a sledgehammer. His father had gotten that girl pregnant and something had happened to the baby and his father had buried it. Now the girl was trying to destroy their family.
"Don't blame it all on the man, James boy. There's something else working here," Aunt Doll's voice whispered in his head.
If the girl was responsible for the things that had happened then she'd have to be stopped before there was no more family. Aunt Doll's words ran through his head and mingled with the story that Doc Varner had told him the night before.
James rose from the chair to call Ms. Creager.
He had a grave to rob.
Chapter Fourteen
Anna fought her way out of her nightmare only to wake up to one.
Something was beating at her, hitting her in the face, not hard, but fast. She tried to bat whatever it was away.
"Caw!"
Crow.
In the dream he had tried to gouge out her eyes. Now she couldn't even get them open. She fought blindly, grabbing at the crow, pulling his feathers out with her hands. His taloned feet danced on her breast, scratched at her already ruined face.
One claw hooked her bottom lip, piercing it, pulling, ripping, splitting it right through. Anna screamed an animal sound. She fought. The bed covers were wrapped around her, holding her down as tightly as if she were wrapped with barbed wire. She heard the crow making a noise that sounded like 'cak-cak-cak'. Anna got a hold on a wing. The other one beat against her face. She tried to turn a
way, she had to get a better grip. Her hand kept brushing against the wing that was free but she couldn't catch it. She got one leg loose from the covers and kicked until the rest of them came off. She was crying, tears slipping from in between her swollen eyelids. "Momma," she whimpered, her split lip flapping. She spat blood.
Then, she roared.
Anna forced herself up to a sitting position, using her free hand to feel for the wall behind the bed. She placed her hand flat on the wall, keeping it there as the vicious crow dug his claws into her breast. She gritted her teeth, one wing still caught in her hand. She used that wing to rip the bird from her, feeling a chunk of meat come out of her chest and she swung as hard as she could, aiming blindly for the hand that was still placed, palm down, on the wall. The crow crashed into her hand and she jerked it back. Crow choked a weak squawk out, then came out fighting again. Anna screamed and smashed, smashed, smashed him against the wall again and again, something sticky ran down her arm, but she wouldn't stop, wouldn't stop, pieces of the crow flying off, hitting her in the face, on her chest, but she kept smashing, smashing, smashing until no more sound came from the bird and the wings finally tore free from the crow's body and came off in her hand. Anna heard the rest of the body hit the floor with a thud.
Anna stood. Her blood and tears mixed together, and set the fresh gashes in her face on fire. She screamed.
The scream died in her throat. Her voice was gone. A hoarse croak was all that she could manage. She could see the sunlight making the inside of her eyes glow red. She took a step away from the bed. Her eyes! How was she going to find her potato sack, lost in the woods, if she couldn't see?
Anna scooted the soles of her feet along the warped wooden floor, her hands out in front of her. She was surprised when her hand touched the old-fashioned water pump at the sink. She started pumping it, feeling the cool water splash onto her other hand. She shoved her ravaged face under the cold stream of water, screaming silently. She had to do it. She had to get the swelling to go down in her eyes.
Anna had to be able to see.
She had to go into the woods and find that potato sack. Without it, she was defenseless. She hardly had anything left in the shack to work with. She needed to work a protection spell. Two had come to attack her and she didn't know how many more would be sent.
The cool water didn't hurt anymore. Her face was numb. She stopped pumping the water up. She kept her face under the stream until it slowed down to a drip. She kept her eyes closed and stood up. Her hair draped across her face, wet and tangled, and she worked it back, tucking it behind her ears. The front of her old dress was soaked. She felt along the edge of the sink, her fingers walking all the way to the old marred board that she used for a counter top before she found a piece of cloth that was dry. It felt like an old dishtowel and Anna didn't know if it was clean, but it would have to do. She brought it up to a face that her fingers no longer recognized and dabbed away the water. The feeling was starting to come back now that she wasn't under the pump and she wished that she had something to kill the pain.
She tried to open her eyes.
The sunlight was searing, all the way to her brain, when her eyes opened a tiny crack. She shaded them with her hand and looked down at the floor.
She could see, a little.
It was blurry and her eyes hurt almost as much as her face and breast. Her left breast felt like it had a bit of meat taken out of it. She touched her breast gingerly. There was a hole there.
She brought her hand away from her eyes ever so slowly, trying to adjust to the brightness.
When she could stand it, and see well enough to walk, Anna went outside into the brightest day there had been all year.
***
Seph glared at Sarge.
She stood three feet inside the room, hands on her wide hips, starched white hat at attention on top of her hairspray-hard hair.
"What do you mean talking on the phone when you are supposed to be resting?" Sarge barked.
"What do you mean 'what do you mean'? Who's paying the bills here?" Seph growled.
"Well!"
"Get me my clothes."
"I don't think so, Mr. Mayhew," Sarge said, smugly.
Seph glared at the woman. Her mouth was pursed so tightly it looked like she had sucked on a lemon and like it. "I said, get my clothes. I'm leaving and no one is going to stop me from doing it." Seph untied the string of the hospital gown at the back of his neck. He felt good enough. He'd get out of here and help James set things right.
"Mr. Mayhew," Sarge said. A tiny wrinkle of worry appeared across her forehead.
Seph stared her down. He undid the last string that held the gown closed, opened the snaps at the shoulders and whipped the gown off.
He sat on the edge of his bed, naked.
"Mr. Mayhew!"
He threw the gown at her astonished face.
"Clothes. Now."
Sarge set her jaw, did the famous squeaking turn, and headed out the door, the gown still wadded in her hand.
"And get somebody to take this damn hose out of my arm, too!" he yelled after her.
After Sarge brought a doctor into the room, they argued for about half an hour, until Seph finally got his clothes and the I.V. taken out of his arm.
He got dressed and tried to call home, but there was no answer. He dialed Matthew's number.
"H'lo?" old Matthew said, answering the phone himself for once.
Seph explained most everything to Matthew, everything that Matthew needed to know anyway, and asked him would he come pick him up. Matthew said sure, he'd be right over.
Seph hung up just as Sarge brought in ten pounds of forms that he had to sign before he could leave. He signed everything where she stuck her pointy finger, felt like kissing her just for spite, but settled for giving her his best smile as he walked out the door and headed down to the lobby to wait for Matthew to pull up in that old rattle-trap that he called a truck.
Matthew was all questions and worry all the way to the farm. Seph had told him that he couldn't stay at the hospital, no matter how sick they said he was, he had to make arrangements for poor Clifford. Seph swore that Matthew had tears in his rheumy eyes when he had dropped him off in his driveway.
"Don't worry, Matt, we'll make it," Seph said, patting the side of the rattle-trap. Rust dusted down on the gravel.
"Yup," was all Matthew said. He put the old truck in reverse and backed out of the drive.
Seph stood in the drive and watched him go. As soon as the truck went around the bend, Seph went into the house to see if there was anybody there. The truck wasn't in the driveway, so he hoped that James had taken off to do the deed that he had sent him to do.
Seph clomped into the kitchen. "James! Fern!"
No answer. Nobody home. God, Seph thought, I hope that he didn't take Fern with him.
He headed up to the bathroom.
Seph took a look at himself in the bathroom mirror, thought that he didn't look too bad, considering, changed his clothes and headed back out into the August heat.
He took off walking down the driveway and it struck him that maybe he could get to the shack faster if he cut through the woods. He probably shouldn't go to the shack to confront the girl on his own but he had to do something. He couldn't just stay at the house and wait for James. At least he could try to find her, tell her that he would give the babe his name. Maybe that would be enough to keep her from doing the family any more harm until he and James could bury the babe proper. This time, he would be sober, too. Good thing. If she tried to bed him again, he might not survive it.
Seph headed into the woods, stepping up over the fallen log that was just a few feet in and told himself that it was just going to be a leisurely stroll. He didn't walk too fast of too slow, but kept his pace as well as he could without causing his heart to jitter. If his heart attacked him out in the middle of the woods, he'd surely die, and his kids would be left to their own devices.
He couldn't have that.
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Seph could smell the rot that was fermenting on the forest floor as he walked. By next week, it would be a pungent odor, and they would be able to smell it all the way into the house, if this heat kept up. He kept his head down, watching for snarled roots and fallen limbs that could trip him up. Visions of Chloe and Cliff filled his head. Days when the family had been one. Before he had started drinking, before the thing with the girl. A time when his family had been safe.
Seph wasn't sure how he was going to live with the loss of Chloe and Cliff, knowing what he knew now. If he hadn't been drinking that night, if he had only stayed at Matthew's...
He had to do what the girl asked, that was all there was to it. He'd give the babe his name, but it wouldn't be buried in the cemetery in Rockside. He had a daughter to raise and he wouldn't have her name put to shame. He'd done enough to shame the family already.
His boot caught in something, almost sending him face down.
"What the--" Seph reached down and untangled his boot from some sort of string. He kneeled down and tugged on it. It was attached to something. Something heavy. He pulled harder.
Out of the brush came an old mesh-type potato sack. It was full of stuff.
Seph worked the bag open.
Something moved through the brush. He heard a twig break. He scanned the woods around him. Nothing. He went back to the bag.
He took out a tiny bottle with some powder in it, and onion, all shriveled up, a small tin that rattled when he shook it. He looked down inside the bag. More of the same, but there was something big and box-like at the bottom.
Seph shook the bag and wormed his hand down to the bottom and pulled out ---
A book.
The book's pages were wet and damp, and they had swelled so much that the book wouldn't close as it should. Seph searched the cover for a title. There was none. The covering of the book was leather. The damp leather felt like skin under his touch. He stood up, his legs trembling from kneeling for so long, and opened the book.