Dead Ends

by JT Ellison

  “Just wait till morning and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I can’t sleep with that thing in my house. She’s always liked you. Maybe you can fix her.”

  Brindy’s plan was to shoot the preacher man between the eyes and then search his house. She couldn’t do either, though, because he wasn’t there, so she ended up having a glass of sweet tea with his wife. They talked about family and God and heaven and how much sugar was enough for a good sweet tea. As the evening wore on, Brindy felt comfortable enough to confess her original intentions for her visit. The preacher’s wife smiled and shook her head.

  “That would have been a sight to see,” she said.

  “My husband… my Dusty… uh, her father always said I was like a stick of dynamite full of stupid, just waiting for someone to light me.”

  “That’s quite a colorful way to say you’ve got the servant’s heart.”

  “I wish I had my daughter’s heart. I wish I knew she’d get through whatever this is. Whatever he did to her.”

  “He did it for her. And for you. For all of us.”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “Go home to your baby. Give her some space and some time. She’ll come back to you.”

  Brindy stood to leave and awkwardly held herself between a hug and a handshake before the preacher’s wife grabbed her and embraced her heartily. Tears and sweat weren’t enough to break Brindy’s growing feelings of comfort and happiness, feelings that she would never have again. At the very end of the hug, the preacher’s wife pulled Brindy in closer, gripping her painfully tight.

  “When it’s time, we’ll have you both.”

  Brindy stood at the gates, stunned. Her instinct told her to run as fast as she could back to her baby and to Matthew. Something was wrong, but she was too afraid to face it. She wanted to go around back to the carriage house as well, but she knew what she would find back there, too. So she stood at the gates to the out-of-place, East Coast-style mansion and hoped to be struck dead by a blast of electricity.

  “I can show you the others,” the preacher said from behind her. “I can’t imagine anyone you’d tell would believe you.”

  The others turned out to be the bodies of ten young girls, all within a year or so of NeNe, who the preacher said was special because she survived.

  As he opened the cellar door where the bodies lay, the preacher began to recite in a hushed, hollow voice:

  “I sing the body electric,

  The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,

  They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,

  And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.”

  “Oh my God,” Brindy said, when she saw the empty faces of the small bodies piled on top of one another.

  The preacher kept going.

  “Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?

  And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?

  And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?

  And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?”

  The preacher kept speaking, getting louder with every verse, and she recognized it was the Whitman poem from the English class where she met Dusty. Seeing so many bodies of other mothers’ babies was too much. She wanted to go to her own baby, whatever she looked like, however she acted.

  Brindy decided they’d leave that night. Pop didn’t need them anymore. He’d left his life savings for them, she knew where. And then they’d drive. Away from the swamp, the whiskey, and the perverts. They’d drive together and become something new together. She was as dead inside as she thought her daughter was, they both needed a revival. They’d find God, or something like him, on their own, without a preacher, the way her grandma said man was meant to find God.

  She heard music as she approached her trailer and wondered if maybe they’d take a minute to dance before they left. NeNe loved to dance when she was a baby and before gymnastics, and before the reality of cost set in, Brindy had dreamed of her daughter being a dancer on Broadway. The music sounded like a show tune, something from the eighties, if the synthesizers were any indication. The song was building as she opened the front door. She saw Matthew’s body lying through her bedroom doorway the same time she heard the lyric from the song.

  I sing the body electric.

  She rushed into the bedroom and saw NeNe lying next to Matthew, both of them undressed and bleeding from their wrists. NeNe’s eyes were closed. Matthew’s were open, his mouth still gurgling and his chest slowly rising.

  “What did you do to my baby?”

  He shook his head and pointed to a note on the dresser. Brindy picked it up and read Matthew’s scrawl:

  You were too concerned with the daughter you wanted and forgot about the one you had. You made me do this.

  She grabbed her baby’s body and wrapped it in a blanket before running as fast as she could back to the preacher’s gates. He was waiting in the carriage house with his wife when she arrived, and took NeNe’s body when she offered.

  “Whatever you did to her, I don’t care. You know? The first time? Whatever you did. Do it again.”

  The preacher shook his head slowly and ran his hands up and down NeNe’s body. Brindy cringed, but kept her eyes on the preacher. She’d do whatever he wanted to bring her baby back.

  “I’m not sure that’s possible,” he said.

  “That pervert killed her and it’s my fault. I didn’t believe in you and what you can do here, but I do now.”

  “Where is Matthew now?”

  “Rotting on my bed.”

  “You… took care of him?”

  “Did it himself. Killed my baby then killed himself like a coward.”

  “So they passed on… together?”

  “You said she’s special. Show me.”

  “For a miracle of this… intensity… we need more. You say you believe in what we do here. You need to show me.”

  “I’ll do anything,” Brindy said.

  The preacher’s wife smiled and handed Brindy a knife.

  “If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,

  And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,

  And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face.”

  In Home Visit

  Dave White

  As he lined up the free throw, Alex eyed the back of the rim.

  Balance, eyes, elbow, follow through. Do that and the ball wouldn’t touch iron, just swish through the net. His coach always told him free throws were a great way to pad the stats. He knew when he became a coach, he would repeat that phrase over and over.

  If he could only let the go of the goblin that stared him down.

  Alicia stood on the porch, leaning against the pillar. Their house wasn’t big—it wasn’t one of the mansions erected just a few blocks away. They’d had goals to get to that neighborhood one day. Before Mom and Dad tried to take on the flood.

  But for now, they stayed in the rickety house, and Alex shot free throws in the driveway. He was doing everything he could to follow his sister’s advice and forget.

  “Ha-ha!”

  As usual, the goblin sat atop the backboard, just out of his peripheral vision, an opposing crowd. He wasn’t really there. He was an illusion trying to distract him. A reason to hang on another year and then get the hell out of Dodge.

  Alicia stepped off the porch the moment Alex released the ball. He knew it was intentional. She’d say she was just going to get the empty garbage can on the curb, but she was also trying to distract him. Keep his eye off the rim. Make him miss the shot.

  He didn’t. It swished.

  “Good one,” Alicia said. “Eyes on the prize, right?”

  The goblin chuckled again. Alex went and got the ball. He’d broached the idea of seeing a therapist about the voice with Alicia, but they didn’t
have the insurance. She told him it was all in his mind. Not to worry. She was going to raise him right. Get him into a good college. Get him on a team. And then get him into coaching.

  It was all about forgetting and working hard.

  Alex went back to the crack in the asphalt and lined up to take another shot.

  “Oh, this is good.” The goblin’s voice was a croak. He’d never spoken before.

  Alex hesitated.

  “You take this shot, and your life will go one way.” The goblin’s voice was like an ocean at high tide. “If you pay attention to everything else, you will be a hero. Right?”

  Alex blinked the goblin away and lined up the shot. He could feel Alicia walking toward the curb. Like a car pulling into a blind spot, he knew she was there, but couldn’t see her.

  He heard the engine of the van. Then the squealing brakes. He lifted the ball up to his forehead.

  Balance.

  The squealing grew louder.

  Eyes.

  “Ha-ha!”

  Elbow.

  “You have to choose, Alex.”

  Follow through.

  “Choose now.”

  The ball swished through the net just as he heard the crunch of metal and bone.

  Alex Stepian hated the heat. Especially the oppressive sauna-like sweat box he stood in now, in Southern Mississippi. If there was a sign he needed to get in better shape, it was his green polo shirt marred with sweat stains underneath the line of his chest. Walking through the small town just to grab coffee, just barely off the plane, and he was drenched.

  This was why New Jersey was for him. It’s why he moved away from here. There were seasons. It was late October and this felt like the last days of July.

  But recruiting is what it is, and landing the top talent for a rebuilding college basketball team meant scouring the world for players. Including small-town Mississippi.

  There was a 6’9” kid down here, long and lanky, who could do it all. Block shots, play with his back to the basket, then step out beyond the arc and swish the three. The tape on this kid was unreal, and as far as Alex knew, no one had heard of him. Alex just happened to come across his highlight tape one late Friday night when—after four whiskeys—he checked his e-mail. A link to the clip was there and he watched it once.

  When he woke up the next morning, he was sure he’d imagined it. But when he checked his e-mail, it was there. He watched the highlight tape—ten minutes of dunks, blocks, and threes—eighteen times, looking for any clue this kid wasn’t the real deal.

  Internet search after Internet search, and he couldn’t find anything bad about the kid. Of course, he couldn’t find anyone else talking about Lonzo Childs, either. Alex had to meet him.

  Alex immediately followed NCAA procedure, making sure the student was a senior since it was too early to visit any other class year student, and then booked a flight and was on his way to Ocean Springs, Mississippi, just outside of Biloxi. He had an address for the school the kid played for.

  But first, coffee.

  And, hopefully, some goddamn air-conditioning.

  He stepped through the door, and a little bell rang above him. He was hit with a swath of hot but moving air. Alex took a breath and realized there were only ceiling fans. No AC. He exhaled and went to the counter. He ordered a hot coffee anyway. Iced coffees didn’t click with him, and he’d read somewhere hot coffee makes you sweat more and that keeps you cooler. Even if he didn’t need more pit stains, being cooler was a good option. He bought a Gatorade as well.

  After fixing the coffee with cream and sugar, he took a seat at an open table. The first sip burned his tongue. Maybe he should have gone with the iced coffee. He pulled out his phone and started to scroll through e-mails. His assistants were handling practice today, but he expected updates.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Alex looked up and saw a clean-cut military guy standing over him, arms crossed. A tremor went through Alex, and he wasn’t sure why.

  “What gave it away? The sweat?”

  The guy grinned. “Nah. The insignia on your shirt. That’s a Yankee school, ain’t it?”

  Alex looked down at the Ben Franklin University insignia, an intertwined BFU, and said, “Yeah. I’m the hoops coach.”

  The guy nodded and pulled out the chair across from Alex. “Do you mind?”

  “I’m only going to be here a few minutes.” Alex leaned back in his chair. “I grew up here, actually. But I moved away a long time ago.”

  The guy grinned. “Southern hospitality. I won’t take up much of your time. I’m Nate Fredricks.”

  Alex stuck out his hand and they shook. For a second, Nate’s face went static and then faded into a shade of green. Alex blinked it away. He could forget.

  “What you doing all the way back down here? Miss the temperatures? Ha-ha.” Nate grinned.

  “Coming back was never my first choice, but it’s the job.” Alex sighed. “Going to scout a kid, maybe convince him to come to my school. You ever see Lonzo Childs play? He plays for the local high school.”

  Nate shook his head. “Man, you came all the way down here for that?”

  Alex shrugged. “It’s the job. And you never answered my question.”

  He took another sip of coffee. It was at a palatable temperature now. The coffee shop was nearly empty, and it felt like the baristas were watching him. He’d never felt that up north. He hated being back here.

  Nate shook his head. “I’m a football fan. Everyone is down here.”

  Alex remembered. The Friday Night Lights, where the town made it out to the high school game, the breeze coming off the ocean. Further into town there was no breeze, but that’s why the football stadium was near the shore. Got to keep the fans happy.

  Another reason to leave town.

  “I know,” Alex said. “But what can you do in the winter? Watch hoops.”

  “How does recruiting work?”

  “Well, you try to sell a kid on your school and why he would be a great fit.”

  “And this kid is a great fit?”

  Alex nodded.

  “And if he says yes?”

  “That would be awesome. He then signs something called a National Letter of Intent, which binds him to the school.”

  Nate shook his head. “You look kind of familiar.”

  “I played here in high school.”

  “I guess so.” Nate tapped on the top of the table. “Well, I better get going. You have a nice day. Good luck with your basketball player.”

  Alex nodded and Nate walked away, the bell to the door ringing behind him. Alex finished his coffee, tipped the barista, and headed toward Ocean Grove High School. As he laughed, he heard the barista laugh. Sounded familiar. He’d only been back a few hours, too.

  “Ha-ha.”

  The school was huge, almost like a college campus. Nothing like what he remembered when he went here. There were four buildings—one for sophomores, one for juniors, and one for seniors. To the right of that was the administration complex, which looked like the size of the entire school when Alex had attended. All were connected to a huge gym.

  Money makes the world—even public education—move.

  He pressed the buzzer and looked up toward the security camera above the door. He grinned.

  “May I help you?” The static voice of an older woman came through the intercom.

  “Alex Stepian from Ben Franklin University? I’m here to see Coach Cobb about Lonzo Childs.”

  “Come to the main office, please.”

  The door buzzed and Alex pulled it open. A wash of air-conditioned air rushed over him and he exhaled. Finally.

  The office was to his right. A few teachers talked to each other in the hallway. One sucked down water from a plastic bottle, while the other pointed at lesson plans. Alex didn’t give them a nod, he just turned and entered the office.

  A secretary as old as the sun ambled over to the counter and put a binder in front of hi
m. She opened it and the flap snapped against the countertop. She scratched her white hair, and placed a pen down.

  “Sign in, please. Dr. Leafwich will want to see you.”

  Alex signed the pad in front of him. At the same time, he said, “But I’m here to see Coach Cobb.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Leafwich first. Those are the rules.”

  She pointed toward the office of the principal. Alex thanked her and walked over to the door. He knocked out of habit, then crossed the threshold.

  Dr. Leafwich sat behind his desk, leg crossed over his knee. To his right a computer screen shined an Excel spreadsheet. On his desk was a picture of his family. Leafwich stood up, came around the desk, and offered his hand. Alex took it.

  “A big, bad Power Five basketball coach in our neck of the woods? Doesn’t happen often. Welcome, sir.”

  “You always get the football coaches, I bet.”

  “Nick Saban was in just the other day. But hoops? Never happens. We’re terrible.” Leafwich reached over and turned off his computer monitor.

  “But you have a good player. I’d love to meet Lonzo Childs.”

  Leafwich squinted at him. “His mother said to expect your call.”

  “I notified the school I was coming.” Alex shifted his weight. “I’m trying to help kids in my area. Get them out of their neighborhoods and teach them a skill. Teach them basketball. Give them and their family a better life. But if I don’t land Lonzo, I will lose my job. My team hasn’t been good yet. We need a break. We need Lonzo. I need to see him.”

  “Well, I didn’t get the message from you.”

  That was odd.

  “But it’s a busy school, and Thanksgiving is coming, so we’re dealing with that and—well—this is the weird part.”

  Alex’s stomach took a turn. Everything in the room felt off. Maybe it was the quick change in temperature, but he felt slightly faint.

  “You are an alum of OCHS, right?”

  Alex nodded. He was supposed to be in sell mode, but he could barely utter a word. Everything about the principal and this room felt off. Almost like a dream, and he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was just Leafwich’s cold demeanor. Haughty. Alex couldn’t put the charm on someone like that.