by Bob Knapp
León gently prodded Skeeter’s arm. “Skeeter, how you doing?” Skeeter slowly turned his eyes toward León. There was no sign of recognition.
“I got something here to make you feel better.” León retrieved the syringes from inside his socks and kept them below Skeeter’s line of sight. “Sent by Sheriff Fowlkes. He’s worried about you.”
Alarm flickered across Skeeter’s face. “Unhh,” he said, stirring as he attempted to rise.
León put his hand on Skeeter’s shoulder, preventing him from moving. “Take it easy, relax.” He patted the shoulder and smiled. “The nurse said it was okay. Be good for you. Help you sleep.” Forever.
León moved to the infusion bag hanging from the IV pole near the head of the bed. “If you don’t want it, just say so.”
Skeeter’s head slowly wagged. “Nooo.”
“Okay, I won’t give it to you.” León poked the needle into the bag's port and depressed the plunger. “This might take a little while to work.”
León emptied three more syringes into the IV bag, then stepped back and watched as Skeeter relaxed. “The nurse said not to stay too long. You need your rest.” Rest very well in about four hours. “Be back to see you later.”
“Don’t worry, Chet,” León said as he passed Waxter. “He’s just sleeping.”
The corners of Waxter's mouth turned up a bit as a tear escaped the corner of his eye.
7
Candy
Hanover glanced down the aisles of his store, making sure no one remained inside. Keys were jangling in hand as he strode towards the automatic glass doors at the front. Those were a concession to modernization after the deaths of his parents.
A woman hurried toward the doors–of course he’d let her in. Customers always came first.
Hanover’s General Store accommodated its customers and Michael Hanover accommodated his employees. Up and down Mills Valley, six was the usual closing time, except for a bar or two. But not for Hanover’s. It remained open until 10:00 P.M. Sunday it was closed, period.
In spite of his wife Becky's objections, Hanover always took the late shift. She often complained to him about his hours after he came home, fatigued and least able to cope with her badgering.
After he had lost his contract with the NFL Redskins, she had been forced to give up her dreams of a sophisticated lifestyle in a metropolitan area. She had come to Madison without a complaint, had pitched right in running the store, and had put her hopes and dreams with his. He thought it not too bad that his schedule was the only complaint she had about him.
Although Hanover sympathized with her, he did not expect the clerks to do what he would not. Besides, he needed to check the shelves for inventory, take care of the day’s receipts, and secure the building.
The woman entered the door and threw out her arms in greeting. “Mikey!” she gushed and hurried toward him.
“Candy,” Hanover managed to croak. His heart made one big thud and then went rapid fire. Only Candy Melowicz called him “Mikey”.
Seven years had passed since he last saw Candy, and now she was more beautiful than ever. Her attire was modest: a short sleeved blouse and flowing skirt. It only added to her allure. She pulled him close and hugged him. The soft perfume of her body filled his nostrils.
Long ago responses caught him off guard then swelled in his chest, neck and head, threatening to burst them. This was the girl who had been in every public school class that he had ever attended. This was the girl who had captured all 63 boys’ hearts at Mills Valley High. Hanover was the only boy who had won hers; that was until he went away to West Virginia University. Then she married Stanley Hopstitch, big time lawyer (so he said) and eight years her senior. He took her back to Charleston with him.
“I—I have a lot to do,” Hanover mumbled, turning away from her grasp. He tried to hide his trembling hands as they shifted cans on the shelves. Hanover’s vision blurred while his mind struggled against his desires. Candy laid her hand on his shoulder. Even her hands were beautiful. Her touch—if he had been blind, her touch would tell him that she was beautiful. He willed his eyes to avoid hers.
“Don’t you remember me?” she teased. Then she laughed and tossed her head, a gesture that had been repeated in his dreams for years.
“Of course,” was all he could get out. His breath came in shallow gasps. Seven years ago he would have had a fitting rejoinder.
“You live here now?” He should not have asked.
“You want me to?” There was that bright, teasing smile. “I’m home, visiting, up at my mom’s. Might stay if I get a job.”
A warm nostalgia flooded over him. During his high school years he had spent as much time in her family’s kitchen as in his own.
“What brings you here?”
She smiled. From the light in her eyes she may as well have said, 'You did!'
“I mean, why did you come to the store?” He hoped she did not notice his shaking hands. “I mean, can I help you? Ahh, what do you want?” Should I offer her a job? No, I can't. But we need some help.
That same smile. Maybe I’m reading more than is there.
“Where are the honeydews?” she murmured.
Although the small store’s layout had not changed in those seven years, he walked her, as if in a fog, to the produce and picked up a melon, any melon.
“It's been so long since I've seen you,” she said. She clung to his arm, looking up into his face, ignoring the melon. She was tall, but still seven-inches shorter than he. As he cast a glance at her, her eyes caught his. He had never forgotten their sky-blue brilliance. His heart pounded once more and resumed its rapid pace.
Guilt walked with him as his thoughts flew to Becky, expecting him, waiting for him, making a late supper for him, at home.
“How is Stanley?” he said, trying to gain some distance. Perspiration formed beneath his mustache.
“Oh, we got a divorce, two years ago,” she said, pitching the thought aside. Again she tossed her head in the way that so enamored him. Her hair caressed his face. She laughed her infectious laugh that told people she enjoyed being with them.
Their eyes met; this time he could not pull away. Together they went to the checkout counter while he absentmindedly held the melon. The room swam.
It seemed impossible. He was a married man. He loved his wife—didn’t he? But his feelings for Candy resumed from where they had ended. After the long absence, they were even more intense. Embarrassment stole up his neck and onto his cheeks.
“Just take this,” he said, holding the honeydew out to her. “The register’s closed." He didn’t even think about a bag.
She pulled his head down, putting her sensuous lips to his cheek, reminding him of those days when their lips had met. He watched as she slowly walked to the door, looked his way and then waved to him before disappearing into the night.
The melon rested in his hand.
“Wait!" He ran to the door. Rushing through, he stumbled into her returning to the store. His arms wrapped around her to keep them both from falling.
Candy’s arms were around his neck. “I forgot the honeydew.” They both laughed as they released each other. He handed her the melon and turned away to go back inside.
“Like my car?” she asked. A gleaming white Buick convertible, with its top down, was parked at the curb. He was surprised he had not noticed it.
“Yes.” The car only added to her aura. His mind (or was it his body?) seemed not to belong to him.
“What is this, a Riviera?” he heard himself say.
“It’s a 1982. Only 29,000 miles. How about a little spin?” She touched his arm, tempting him.
“I better finish up. Becky’ll worry if I’m late.”
“Just a little spin. Hop in. Won’t take long.”
* * *
The wind whipped through their hair as Candy headed the car toward Route 2.
“A gorgeous car.”
She hung a right turn onto Route 18 from Route 2.
/>
“Hey! Where you going?” Hanover sat up stiffly. “You said a little spin.”
The car hummed as it accelerated up the seven percent grade. Candy didn’t answer.
The blackness increased as they left the main highway. The only light came from the headlamps dancing on the road and from the glow of the dash—Hanover turned his head—on Candy! He snapped his eyes back to the road.
Hanover sat back in the posh leather seat. He had been foolish. His mind raced. There were no stops on this road for miles, only winding turns. He wiped the palms of his hands on his pants. If she didn’t turn around he could jump from the car as it stopped at a traffic light in Middlebourne, but then he’d be nearly fifteen miles from the store.
Hanover tried to think of things to say that would take his mind off of her.
“What year is this car?”
“An eighty-two. I told you.” She laughed.
“A few more years and you can get antique license tags.”
“Yes,” she purred.
“Rides like brand new.”
“Yes.”
This was going nowhere. He really wanted to ask her all about herself. Another side of him argued that he should not become involved. Not even a little. You could fill a bucket one drop at a time.
The car swept around turns. As they climbed, the air became deliciously chilled. The scent of deeper woods wafted to them. Reaching the crest of the hill, they wound down into a little valley where cool, moist air had collected. After each descent the car climbed again, but now the hills rose more gently. The sound of crickets hailing each other flowed from those hollows.
Hanover settled further into the seat, letting it surround him. There was nothing he could do.
At Middlebourne the three traffic lights blinked yellow, letting them pass unimpeded. The streets were empty except for a dog wandering along the side of the road. Most houses were dark; a yellow glow emanated from an occasional window. The light from street lamps, strung far apart, struggled against the darkness.
As they returned to the countryside, Candy began singing softly. Hanover remembered how proud he had felt in high school that Candy, his girlfriend, sang most of the solo parts in the school choir. Soothed, remembering back, his head fell against the headrest.
* * *
Hanover stirred as Candy turned the headlights off, cut the engine and allowed the convertible to glide to a quiet stop. Almost as well as Hanover used to do it. Sneaking in this way had thrilled her. She leaned over and spoke gently into Hanover’s ear. “Mikey, we’re here. Wake up.”
Hanover struggled to get his bearings. All was dark except for a building down the road with a single outside light. It was The Jug, Uncle Andy’s place. Suddenly, he was fully awake. What if Uncle Andy saw him here—with Candy?
Candy pulled on his arm. “Come on.” She let go and walked from the Buick toward a line of trees that hid Middle Island Creek from the road, down a path they had traversed hand-in-hand, time and again.
He refused to move. Images of those good times flooded his mind. Candy, Candy filled his vision. He yearned to run to her; he could feel her kisses upon his lips. But it was wrong, all wrong.
Halfway to the trees, Candy turned and beckoned to him from the darkness; the light from The Jug caressed one side of her face. Hanover’s heart leapt to his mouth. His knuckles clutched the armrest and turned white.
She turned and stepped into the blackness.
Hanover sat, still gripping the armrest, the throbbing in his temples relentless.
The seconds crept by.
He heard a slight rustling of leaves and branches, then a low thud from within the woods. Sounds carried readily in the stillness of the night.
“Oh, help!” Candy cried. Again she called, this time a little louder.
Leaping from the car, Hanover sprinted toward the voice.
“Mikey, stop. Be careful, there’s a hole,” Candy called. “Over the other way, go slow,” she directed.
Hanover saw her shadowed form seated on the pathway they knew so well. A tree had died from the drought, had fallen over and pulled its roots from the ground, creating a hole.
Hanover helped Candy up. With his arm around her waist and hers about his shoulders, he led her into a small clearing dominated by a large flat oval rock. This had been her destination. He lifted her onto the rock’s edge where she sat, her legs hanging over the side. He was chagrined that he enjoyed helping her this way, getting close to her.
Although there was no moon, the rock glowed white in the starlight. In the daylight it sported rusty streaks, giving it a red cast. Revealed at its center was a large shallow depression, worn smooth by wind and rain. “The Cradle”, someone had named it. Others called it, “the Devil’s Palm,” to be consistent with the Devil’s Spigot upstream. Normally the creek swept the other side of the rock, but on this night there was no sound. The creek had been dry for weeks.
“It’s my ankle.” She bent over and tested it with her fingers. “I think it’s sprained.”
“Better get you out of here. It could be broken.”
“No, it’s not that bad. Let me rest a few minutes.” She patted the rock beside her. “Sit down. I won’t bite.”
“Let me check it.” He recalled the many experiences he had with football injuries.
Candy didn’t object as he gently felt the ankle.
“I think I should wrap it,” Hanover said. He pulled his shirt over his head and began to tear it into strips. “We can put some ice on it when we get back. If the creek was flowing, you could dangle your foot in the cool water.”
Candy remained silent as he wrapped the ankle and foot in a neat figure eight.
She patted the rock once more. “Sit,” she invited.
Hanover was tired. He had put in a long day. Now it was late, very late. He hoisted himself atop the rock to sit a couple of feet from Candy. For a few minutes just to get myself together. His thoughts turned to Becky. What would he tell her? What was she going to think?
The dry air, cooled by the clear sky, brought a chill to his bare skin. He could feel the warmth left in the rock from the day’s sun. He scooted himself back into the Cradle to lie flat upon the rock. The contrast between the warm rock and cool air sent shivers down his spine. It was comforting to lie there, much like old times.
Hanover stared at the sky. They had always come to look at the constellations, lying in the Devil’s Palm, reaching up as if to grasp the stars. But tonight’s sky was much different. Stars flooded the sky. “So this is the Milky Way,” he said, reverently, as if to God. In other years the humidity had allowed only the brightest stars to peek through.
Hanover thought of the grandeur he was witnessing and everything faded: who he was, his responsibilities, his plans, even Becky and Candy, all faded. He breathed deeply.
He felt another warmth, a human warmth, next to his side. Candy had slid across the rock.
“I’m cold,” Candy said, and snuggled up to him. She laid her head into the crook of his arm. Oddly, he felt relief. He allowed his fingers to entwine with hers.
8
Home Late
Becky slammed down the phone. Michael hadn’t answered—again. Yanking open the microwave door, she pulled out a plate of food and headed toward the trashcan. I’m tired of worrying, saving his supper and warming it up. It’s 10:45 at night! We should be in bed! There’s no sense in him putting in fourteen-hour days. He loves that store more than he loves me.
“I can’t be running up and down from the storage loft to answer the telephone. I’ll never get home,” he had said to her last night.
“And then we’ll never have that baby we agreed on, three years ago!” she had answered.
She held the plate over the trashcan and dropped its contents into the can.
A chill swept over her, giving her goose pimples. Maybe Michael has fallen down the loft steps. Or someone has shot and robbed him. Maybe he needs help.
She headed to the door, gr
ipping the empty plate.
* * *
Becky’s Chrysler 300C became airborne as she topped each knoll of Clark Road. She paused briefly before running the stop light at Route 2, headed south, then floored the gas pedal until the car hit ninety. She gave no thought to the possibility of a deer stepping out of the black into her headlight. She slowed only enough to make the turn at Elm Lane and slid to a stop at the store.
Becky paused before getting out of her car. Strange. Surrounded by darkened homes, Hanover’s store looked out of place with its lights still burning. By ten o’clock the door should have been locked and the lights turned off. Her heart beat wildly.
Becky’s tennis shoes made crunching sounds as she hurried across the graveled parking lot, past Michael’s SUV and into the store.
“Michael?” Becky yelled. Silence answered. The blood pounded in her temples. She hurried to the back room. No Michael. She yelled down each aisle, her eyes wide. In reply, there was only the tick-tick from the big wall clock. The walls, the lights, the counter with the cash register, everything looked strange, as if she was in an unfamiliar place. She felt weak.
No use getting upset. But I ought to have some help.
She hated to telephone Sheriff Fowlkes at such a late hour, but remembered his election campaign motto, “Ready to Serve,” and called him. She thought he would send a deputy, such as Tom Brady. Brady was an easy-going man.
Becky tried not to think about Michael. As a distraction, she straightened the counter and swept the wooden flooring. Her first awareness of Fowlkes’ presence came from the scent of his cologne. When she looked up, Fowlkes was watching her from a few feet away.
Undoubtedly, she had awakened the sheriff from bed, but Terrance Fowlkes appeared anything but ruffled. His sharply pressed uniform, erect posture and calm manners instilled trust. She was glad that he was there instead of a deputy.