The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  Fowlkes’ nose tilted up as he inhaled. “Ah, smells great! Just passing by. I thought that since this is a Friday, I might catch your husband.” Who, I hope, is still at the store. “The store does close early on Friday's, doesn't it?”

  Fowlkes observed that Becky's blouse, closed by a granny knot at the front, revealed a firm bosom and slim midriff. Flour clung to black capris below which red toenail polish accented tan legs and bare feet.

  “It's just another work day to Michael. He won't be home for several hours.”

  She turned to the kitchen. “I've got to check on my cinnamon cakes.” Fowlkes continued standing at the house's entrance, not quite sure how to act with a decent woman. He wondered if it would be impolite to ask himself in; but he did not intend to leave.

  From the kitchen came the unmistakable squeak of an oven door. She seemed to have forgotten him.

  “That was a nice speech you gave last week,” called Fowlkes. “Too bad how the council voted. I wanted to talk to your husband about it.” The padding of bare feet on linoleum approached him.

  “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you standing there.” She was framed by the kitchen doorway, with light and shadows falling across her face. A tingling sensation traveled from his head, down his spine, and to his feet.

  “I had a sudden vision of burning cinnamon,” Becky said. “A nightmare is more like it. Come into the kitchen.”

  The aroma of cinnamon wafted up to him. His body was never more alive.

  “Please, take a seat,” she said.

  The recessed lights dotting the ceiling cast a glow off the white walls. The blackening night, seen through the kitchen windows, contrasted with the gleaming room and accentuated Becky's allure. Fowlkes suddenly realized how lonely he had been.

  Becky, with quilted mitts, retrieved two cake-pans from the oven and set the pans on wire racks. “As soon as they cool a little, we'll give them a try,” she said, “with some coffee.”

  Fowlkes was content to let his eyes follow her as she glided about the room. She filled the electric coffee maker, pulled out plates, mugs, cream and sugar, then put a cake with a cinnamon-brown crust sparkling with sugar on the table. Fowlkes’ mouth watered as vapor rose from the cuts she made in the hot cake. “Coffee cake,” she said, and placed a piece before him and one on the table for herself, then sat cattycorner from him. “When I have time, I make Baklava.”

  Her black eyes flashed as she smiled. “My Aunt Helena's recipe. Hanover's sells homemade cinnamon coffee cake every Saturday morning. The microwave warms it. The coffee's free.”

  Fowlkes smiled back. “Is that a sales pitch?”

  Her hand brushed his arm as she reached for the cream pitcher. “For you, the cake's always free.”

  Fowlkes didn't think he could blush, but he did. He didn't know eating cake could seem so intimate. And uncomfortable. And wonderful.

  “So, this is Fun Friday for you?” he said.

  “Every week. There would be a lot of disappointed customers come Saturday morning if I didn't bake these cakes. Saturday's a big shopping day. Michael wants to keep it that way.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Becky looked directly at Fowlkes. Her eyes, suddenly moist, were like polished onyx. She stood and turned away. “More coffee?” she said, and took the pot from the coffee maker. He had yet to take a sip.

  Fowlkes reached to pull her to him, but stopped. He didn't want to risk offending her. He needed to be patient.

  “You know Michael was a pro quarterback? Washington Redskins,” Becky said.

  “No.” Fowlkes wondered if this was an answer to his question. He nodded for Becky to continue.

  “I was so excited that year. Being a football player's wife and all. Traveling to big cities. Shopping with the other players' wives and girlfriends. Michael bought me a lot of nice things. We were going to build a home in Deale, Maryland, right on the waterfront. It's not far from D.C., you know. Then—then . . .” Becky sniffed. She retrieved a tissue from the box on top of the refrigerator and wiped her eyes. “Then Michael's knee was injured in a playoff game. They tried to rehab it. His contract said if he was permanently disabled the remainder was terminated.

  “Michael was then just like he is now. He'd given half our money to inner city kids and charities. Then when Hurricane Katrina hit, he'd handed over a bunch more to the Red Cross. We were pretty much out of money, so when his parents were killed in that accident, we came back here to run the store.”

  “You must have been disappointed,” Fowlkes said.

  “I can't stand it anymore—worrying about money and this one-horse town. It never bothers Michael, he just works and works. It can't be for the money. He feels sorry for everybody. Half our...” Becky held up two fingers on each hand to make quotes, “customers” owe us. He says he works for me—and our future children. Ha! I just say, 'where's the money' or 'what children?'”

  Fowlkes reflected on how Becky's attitude and desires might be used to his advantage. Maybe a trip, a few gifts...

  Suddenly inspired, Fowlkes pulled up the flap on his vest pocket, extracted a small bag of peanuts, and sprinkled some onto his cake. Opening his mouth into a wide grin, he shoved a piece of cake with peanuts into his mouth and then, beginning to laugh, choked. He managed to swallow and then roared uncontrollably as he gestured for Becky to try some. He attempted to say, “New recipe.”

  Becky, returned the coffee pot and, bending over the table, sprinkled peanuts from the bag but could not bring the fork to her mouth as she burst into laughter. Losing her balance, she fell against him, pressing her warm body against his shoulder and face. Fowlkes placed his arm about her waist. He thought of how exciting it would be to have her in his bed. Who cares about Hanover? While they both continued laughing, Becky straightened and handed Fowlkes his arm.

  * * *

  For the third time Hanover put the figures into the computer and obtained a different total. My mind has developed a will of its own. He put his face into his hands.

  An image of Candy standing in front of the auditorium, looking only at him, beckoning with beautiful lips, filled his head. How can I get her out of my head?

  Nine hundred and eighty two dollars. It was Nine hundred and seventy one the previous time. Nine hundred and eighty seven before that. Rats! Who'd ever think I majored in business?

  A customer pushed a half-loaded cart to the cash register. Hanover, his mind on his problems, went to the counter to ring up her purchases, then, not having remembered ringing up her groceries, watched dumbfounded as she carried her bags away.

  He stared, unseeing, at the wall, his mind drifting back to a few weeks ago when Candy walked beside him in the store—her scent dizzying him, her hair caressing his cheek—wonderful. Her hand entwined with his. Lying upon the warm rock in cool night air. Candy!

  I've got to get her out of my head!

  Hanover sighed. I'll start all over again. Concentrate, take my time. If I get two the same, that's it. His fingers flew, then stopped as he turned a page, and then pounded the keyboard again.

  No! One thousand and seventeen!

  I was just seventeen years old—it seems like yesterday. I kissed Candy then drove off to WVU. But Becky came with her dark, charming features. I loved her. We married. Hanover shook his head and once more bent to his task.

  Nine-hundred-ninety-two-dollars. I'll never get done. Wish I could afford inventory software. If only everyone would pay up. He put his fingers on the keyboard, but they didn't move.

  And now a gulf is widening between Becky and me. Candy stands in the middle. Beautiful, sweet Candy. Why do I let her torment me like this?

  I made a choice, a commitment, and a promise to love Becky forever. Isn't that what love is? No more adolescent fantasies and impulses. No more mooning over Candy. I am a man, responsible to my wife, sworn to love and protect her.

  Maybe Becky is right. I'm more married to this store than to her. I never give her any time. He smiled. I won
der if you can get a divorce from a store, or do you just leave it?

  That's it! I'm going home right now to tell Becky that I'm sorry. Explain everything. We’ll start over. And no more late hours. We'll do something fun. And we'll have those kids we've always talked about.

  Hanover turned the sign on the door from “open” to “closed” and walked to his car.

  * * *

  Racing his Tahoe down Clark Street, Hanover was startled to see a Madison County Sheriff's car parked in front of his house. He wondered if it was Fowlkes. Why would he be there?

  Hanover parked down the road rather than in his driveway so that his arrival would not be noticed. He switched off his headlights. It was pitch dark. There were no houses or streetlights in the vicinity. The canopy of trees overhead blocked what little light there was from the late August night sky. Although he could see light glowing from his house, it did nothing to illuminate the black roadway beneath his feet. Except when he stumbled on the uneven pavement, he had the sensation that he was walking in space.

  Raucous laughter met him as he neared the house. He hurried to the back and watched through the window, being careful to not let light fall upon him. Becky was bending over Fowlkes, pressed against him, laughing, while his arm encircled her waist. Shocked, Hanover stepped back from the window.

  I'm being played for a fool! He went to the window again. Fowlkes had his head tilted up, his mouth opened wide as Becky attempted to toss peanuts into it. They laughed and looked into each other's eyes. She pulled her chair close to his and sat down.

  Hanover turned his head away. A tight ball formed in his gut. What else will they do? Do they do? I'm usually not home for two more hours! How long has this been going on? Should I intervene now and throw the bum out, or wait until he leaves and have it out with Becky?

  Hanover went to the kitchen door. He twisted the knob and rammed his shoulder into the door. Its momentum carried it to the wall where it hit with a thud. “What's going on here?” Hanover yelled. His face felt hot. He alternately pointed at Fowlkes and then to the open doorway. “Get out! Get out!”

  Becky's head was close to Fowlkes’. She jumped from her seat, jarring the table and sloshing coffee onto the tablecloth.

  Fowlkes sat anchored to his chair, staring back at Hanover. Finally, he rose and walked toward the open door. Their eyes held each others'—blazing.

  Fowlkes turned toward Becky but addressed Hanover. “I had come to talk with you, Mr. Hanover, about my property's zoning—in your home as a courtesy—but we'll meet at another time, perhaps in my office. Mrs. Hanover, thank you for allowing me to wait,” He gave a slight bow with his head, “and for introducing me to your aunt's coffee cake. It is delicious.”

  “You really don't have to go,” Becky said, trying to sound as if she was addressing a casual guest who had stayed too long.

  Hanover's skin crawled. “I think he wants to go.” He glowered at the sheriff.

  “You'll be alright Beck- Mrs. Hanover?” Fowlkes said, indicating Hanover with a movement of his eyes.

  Fowlkes’ implication deepened Hanover's anger. He thrust his finger toward the doorway. “Get out, and don't come back!”

  “Michael! Don't be so rude.” Becky smiled at Fowlkes. “Have a good night, Sheriff.”

  * * *

  Scowling, Hanover threw his work apron on the kitchen table, knocking over a coffee mug. The coffee spilled across the table and onto the floor. Hanover kicked the door shut and stared at Becky. “You are so stupid! How could you, with Fowlkes—the dreg of the earth?”

  Becky stood with her hands on her hips, her jaw thrust out. “I'll tell you how dumb I am. I have proof—a marriage certificate signed by the minister. I'm slaving away, baking cakes for the store—for you. I'm getting smart. No more!

  “Sheriff Fowlkes is respected more than you are. He's a leader in Madison. Besides, he came to see you, not me. And you're the one dilly-dallying with that woman.”

  They were standing nose to nose now. Hanover ground his teeth. “There's even more proof of your stupidity—your birth certificate! I know what I saw. You know why I'm home early? To see you. I was planning to close the store early from now on. But what's the use?”

  Becky turned and strode toward the bedroom. “I don't believe you. You probably came to get something you forgot.”

  “Oh, no, you don't!” Hanover hurried ahead to place himself between Becky and the bedroom. “I'm not getting locked out again. You can sleep where you want.”

  “And you can finish baking the coffeecakes!”

  15

  Deal With the Devil

  Sheriff Fowlkes gazed across the dry bed of the Jug Handle at the Devil's Spigot, then looked up the road where the trees cast long shadows. Even if Hanover didn't show up, the peace and solitude of the countryside were worth the trip.

  Fowlkes had decided on civilian clothes—a soft blue shirt with navy blue pants—to help put Hanover at ease. He had told Hanover he had something to show him. Spreading a little honey on Hanover couldn't hurt. If he agreed, the rest of the council would acquiesce.

  Loose gravel crunched as Hanover's '06 grey Tahoe pulled onto the lot at the side of the restaurant. Fowlkes caught Hanover's scowl as Hanover walked toward him. Hanover had dressed in a sport coat—somewhat unusual for him in this setting, even if it was getting cool.

  Good bet a gun is jammed under his belt at the small of his back. The jacket's a cover up. A disturbed civilian's worse than a cornered copperhead. I should have brought my Glock. Never mind. I can handle Hanover.

  “I had almost given up on you,” Fowlkes said.

  “I said I'd come.” Hanover wiped a knuckle across his mouth. “No uniform? What's this about? I've got a lot to do.”

  Fowlkes reached inside his jacket. From the corner of his eye he saw Hanover's hand flash behind his back. Fowlkes pretended not to notice and pulled out a flask, then fished a couple of shot glasses from an outside pocket. “How about a drink?”

  “A drink is supposed to make amends?” Hanover's nostrils flared. “That'll never do for murder.”

  Fowlkes extended his hands, palms up, the glasses and flask still in them. He had setup the elder Hanover’s, but he hadn't killed them—not directly. ”I don't know what you're talking about. I wanted to show you something about this place, that's all. Work something out with you. Just relax. You came to meet me, didn't you?”

  Hanover waited.

  Fowlkes poured two drinks, then held one out to Hanover. Hanover didn't move. Fowlkes shrugged and slugged both whiskeys down. He was determined to remain calm.

  “Look around you. Beautiful,” Fowlkes said. “The best thing that ever happened to this place is me owning it.” He ignored Hanover's scowl. “Can you imagine what it'd be like in a few years if your cousin Jake still owned this? Doing what Maureen wanted to make a few bucks? Covered with houses, developments. The creek polluted. None of that stuff is gonna happen now.”

  “You brought me out here because of the casino deal? I thought something happened. I've got lots to do at the store; I'd like to get to bed tonight.” Hanover turned and walked toward his Tahoe. “You heard what I said at Town Hall. I'm not changing my mind.”

  “Wait, hear me out.” Fowlkes walked after him, jogged to get to his own car first, then reached through the window to withdraw a manila folder. “Look,” he called. He caught up to the Tahoe as Hanover slid onto the seat. Fowlkes stepped between the open door and the vehicle. “Here, take a look at these.”

  Hanover shook his head. “I don't need to see 'em. I've gotta go. Let me close the door.”

  I'll close something for you—your muddy bug eyes. Fowlkes took a deep breath to calm himself. He pulled a drawing from the folder and thrust it in front of Hanover. “Nice, huh?”

  Hanover turned the ignition key while considering the picture held in front of his steering wheel. “Yeah, nice. I'm going.” The engine purred to life.

  “Becky liked the resort idea,” Fowlkes
said. “Give me a minute and consider it from her viewpoint.” Why am I trying to placate this jackass? Okay, 'Plan your work and work your plan,' Uncle Donovan always said.

  “Leave my wife out of this and keep away from her. Don't even mention her name.” Hanover slammed the gearshift into drive, spinning the wheels.

  Fowlkes cursed and jumped onto the car's doorsill. He clutched Hanover and the doorframe as the car lurched toward the roadway. Papers scattered over the dusty parking lot.

  The car spun and careened back toward the creek bank as Hanover attempted to shake Fowlkes. Fowlkes grabbed the steering wheel. The SUV spun crazily as Hanover hit him in the jaw. Fowlkes’ feet slipped from the sill. Hanover smashed Fowlkes again. Fowlkes ignored the blows and regained a foothold. He pushed himself inside and crushed Hanover against the gray leather seat. He grabbed the gearshift and jammed the lever into Park. Rear wheels fought to gain a grip on the loose gravel. The SUV slid to a stop with its front bumper against the fence next to the embankment that dropped to the creek bed below.

  Fowlkes yanked Hanover out of the vehicle and slammed him against the back door. “You trying to kill us?”

  The gun! Fowlkes threw Hanover face down onto the lot and put his knee into Hanover's back. There was no gun.

  “Where's the pistol?”

  “What pistol?”

  Fowlkes leaned his two-hundred-thirty-four pounds onto his knee.

  “Okay. Okay, I put it behind my seat when I got back in the car,” Hanover said through gritted teeth. “Get off.”

  While keeping an eye on Hanover, Fowlkes retrieved the Smith & Wesson and pulled the keys from the Tahoe's ignition, then picked up his sunglasses and shook dirt from the pictures. His eyelid danced as he returned the glasses to his face. With his fingertips he touched his jaw where Hanover had struck him. Wincing, he told Hanover where he should spend eternity.

  “Look at these.” Fowlkes held out the drawings as he watched Hanover struggle to his feet and dust himself off.