The Lipless Gods

by Brian Stillman

  Chapter 38

  The final few veins of sunrise pink were dissipating into the blue sky. The old men gathered on the gravel between the Patriot’s Kiosk and Don’s Automotive were energetic, practically vibrating. Tiffany put in mind of children on the brink of Christmas morning.

  They told her the cops had pulled out. Abandoned Old Woods Road where the asphalt degenerated to gravel. An inquiry out to Zippy Mart confirmed the cop’s abandoning that post, too. Miss Millicent Timbers had been spotted over in Dale. Had attacked some old timer and set fire to someone’s backyard.

  The old boys nattering and clucking in excitement, some of them had probably been awake for hours now. Tiffany made eye contact with Merritt Lowry, gone pale amongst his brethren at sight of the girl. His head bruised, but no one seemed to care, not with this latest turn of events. None of the others noticed the silent transfer of knowledge going on between the teenager and the owner of The Outpost. Hudson and Henderschott, brothers-in-law some 30 years now, easily the most agitated of the other four men.

  “There was a TV news van out at the Zippy Mart,” said Hudson. “They took off with all them cops.”

  “Going to alllll that trouble. Dale even, they’re about to be disappointed,” said Henderschott. “There’s no woman there. There might be a fire.”

  “How would you know?” asked Hudson.

  “Dollars to doughnuts, Peevie set the fire.”

  “Who’s a Peevie?” asked Tiffany.

  “Purvis,” contributed Don Jennings. Don’s lips clenched around his pipe stem. Solemn. Providing one-word contributions at the most.

  “Purvis Owens,” Hudson told Tiffany.

  Henderschott nodded. “He hates that couple living across from him. Couple of hippies. Hated them for years. Been looking for some way to get to ‘em. They host some sort of caravan once a year. Bunch of drum circle enthusiasts stopping by on their way to Burning Man. You should hear him go on about it, sounds like a 12-year old trying to recount his first porno.”

  “Who? 12 year old?” asked Abel Walker. Abel was ancient. The town Moses. Wore a long sleeved shirt and plaid patterned pants everyday for as long as anyone could recall. He cupped his ear, a permanent pose, even though a hearing aid was plugged on into it.

  “We’re just saying,” Hudson started in, “Peevie’s got issues with his neighbors.”

  Abel said, “Oh,” like that clarified everything. He nodded the patented solemn Abel Walker nod.

  “Poor Peevie’s seen it all,” said Henderschott. “Naked girls, naked men. Their kids running around like little Indians, hooping and hollering, pooping and peeing right next to the trickle of a creek out there. Peevie’s got a gun, but he isn’t quite that crazy. But it’s about time it burst on out. I bet you he hit himself in the head with a plate then called 911. Probably started the fire before that.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Marie? Shit, Hudson. She’s dead. If she were alive, wouldn’t take much for Peevie to convince her to hit him in the head with something. Peevie was born ornery.”

  They all nodded. Tiffany felt like there was something she should ask. It was too early. The half can of Diet Pepsi she’d downed after donning jogging duds wasn’t widening blood vessels nearly fast enough.

  Henderschott nodded contemplatively the length of Old Woods Road, down towards the timberline. “They should’ve napalmed the forest.”

  “Oh, that would make sense,” said Hudson. “Then how you going to get out to fish? Napalm would kill fish soon as anything else out there.”

  “We’re talking about a threat. You pussy-foot, you pay the price.”

  “A threat.” Hudson motioning to the audience. “A girl is a threat?”

  “You see that gun, Guy Dobbs picking it up right on over there yesterday after she dropped it? You see her shooting up the town before all that? Ask Dougie Lueck. She nearly took his head off.”

  “She broke Dougie’s nose. According to Racine, he’s back at the job already,” said Hudson. ”That’s hardly-“

  “She was just getting warmed up at that point. Millie Timbers? All those drugs those Olympians pump on into themselves, she could’ve cleaved right through this town like a butterknife. Gone all Terminator on us.”

  “Just like Ah-nuld? I did see,” said Hudson. “I saw she couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”

  “Well, napalm, no napalm, I just hope she makes it.”

  “Makes what?”

  “Makes it! Eludes those fools.”

  “You just like her ass in them yoga pants, Reginald.” Right after he said it, old man Hudson got a look on his face. Nodded to Tiff. “Sorry, young ‘un. Forgot a lady was here.”

  “Oh, don’t even bother apologizing,” said Henderschott. “Poor kid, everyone knows Norm blasphemies every other goddamned word anyways.”

  The old men all chuckled at that one. Abel, too, with only a slight delay.

  Tiff felt a little uneasy walking away from them. Wondering if the old men were checking out her butt, not that the baggy shorts really gave away every dip and doodle.

  One of the group called after Merritt. Asked him to toss some blueberries into their pancakes this morning, once The Outpost opened up. Tiff looked back. Merritt walked down Old Woods Road, trailing her. He froze, noticing Tiffany noticing him. His house was right across from the south end of the city park. Tiffany reminded herself that had to be his destination. Scared as he’d looked, he didn’t seem primed for trailing her, kidnapping, holding her until the Butcher’s Camp Massage crew appeared. She bit down the temptation to wheel around, threaten to call Sipe on him. She quickened her pace. Started her run short of the track.

  Loping down Old Woods Road, she looked at her phone. A news flash on the KREM news site, an upcoming update on Millicent Timbers, but that was all. Just the promise, no details.

  The cop car wasn’t the only thing missing out on Old Woods Road.

  Bug wasn’t at the railcars. Henry wasn’t at Mason’s. Sipe wasn’t passed out on the grass.

  Bug might still be in bed with Hope. Hope had told Tiffany last night, she’d been sleeping with him, but just sleeping. Hope wouldn’t have a problem with, you know, doing it with him, she really liked Bug, how fussy he got, like a little old woman about certain things, but he wouldn’t touch her in her girl places. One night last week she couldn’t sleep, went to his bedroom and got into bed with him. Spooned him. She’d been spooning him ever since. One time she reached over his hip, and grabbed it, it it, and he did a full body spasm. Told her no, not ever. He called her laugh wicked. She told him he ought to tell her something she didn’t already know.

  Hope was free. That was the important part. To do what, that was the question. Tiff had woken up, tired, then happy, remembering how yesterday turned out, stretching, putting on her clothes for the jog – today she’d actually start – and then that question popped up in her head. Hope’s options. Hope’s lack of options.

  The Beeper’s making, that creative node, passed on in the genes to the single Logan offspring. Hope made things up. Last night, after scaring Tiff and Henry with all that basement door pounding, she’d told them about Sipe, Tasering or whatevering the holy shit out of Bonnie, zapping Clay, punching Bret in the balls. And Connie grabbing the gun from Merritt. It was awesome. It was like a movie. Tiff had quashed the impulse to tell Hope all about Sipe almost ripping her arm clean out from the socket. Hope wouldn’t hear it. Too deeply enmeshed in her high. Tiff wanted to talk to Sipe. Ask if it was true, Bonnie threatening to kidnap her, had that had been the thing sending him into attack mode. He wouldn’t tell her what had happened. Not in detail. He’d be terse. The polar opposite of Hope or Tiff’s mom if Tiff called when the happy drugs, the really happy drugs, were controlling the joystick.

  Things. Sipe’s complete report. What had happened at The Outpost last
night? Things.

  Last night, before Hope arrived it’d been weird with Henry. In his basement they could hear Gwen and Norm chatting away up top. And Norm had voiced reluctance, he didn’t know Gwen, but before they’d left the little house for Henry’s place he’d even put on a real shirt, buttons and everything, brushed his teeth. He didn’t go to that much trouble before heading out for his “massage”.

  Henry hadn’t asked her about the kiss. The smooch right before she rode to Pendleton with Sipe. Henry kept his mouth shut. She nattered away at her regular clip, but eventually she cycled down to his low ebb, the two looking at videos on their phones. Footage uploaded by Little Creek residents. Millie running through town, Sipe driving away, Millie shooting at him, Millie dropping the gun, sprinting out of town, Connie running after her. Poor Connie. Guy Dobbs picking up the gun, town folk circling him like he’d sliced the arm off a mad god or something, saved them all. Great press for the Dobbs, for Auntie’s. Poor Uncle Norm.

  Something shattered inside one of the railcars. Tiff went rigid. At least she had on the right garb if she needed to run.

  She looked at the railcars, left to right, searching for movement in the doorways. It could’ve been nothing more than random settling. The inanimate animated, floorboards giving way, too many years with abundant crap just sitting, getting wet, getting heavier until the wood just couldn’t bear the weight anymore.

  Some doorways were dark. Closed off. Mattresses, bedsprings, sinks, inner tubes, mannequins, shoved inside, random crap eating the light. Some of the doorways provided straight line of sight, nothing blocking the view, she could see the trees in the background, or fields, even the forest line out behind the Zippy Mart and Bug’s.

  It was light. Morning. Birds making song. Tiff all the way over on the asphalt. Someone or something would have to own the longest arm in recorded history to grab her and pull her inside one of the railcars. It felt like something was watching her. Bonnie. Clay. Hope’s revelation from last night getting to her. Yep. It was that elaborate. The Butcher’s Camp Massage people knew Tiff was trying to lose weight, and despite getting thrashed last night, here they were. Merritt had called and they’d magically prepped a kidnapping.

  Even crossing the bridge, starting down the graveled decline towards the combination track and baseball diamond, Tiff kept looking back at the railcars. She should call Henry. See if he was awake. Yesterday a little too out of the ordinary. She shouldn’t interrupt his sleep. Phone in hand, she walked onto the track. Looked around the loop. They ran in gym class. According to Mr. Lyle, Tiff shuffled. She couldn’t shuffle anymore. Shuffling wouldn’t melt the pounds. She couldn’t sprint either. 50 yards in she’d suffer a coronary. Slow and easy wins the race. Don’t be the rabbit. Be the turtle. Was there a turtle superhero? Duh. There were four of them. Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael. Green. She had green stuff, didn’t she? Not just pants, but tops. She could wear a little mask, just like they did. At least until school started.

  She lost a few minutes Googling, researching ninja turtles. The cool air was being fast supplanted by warm.

  She put the phone away. Looked around the track, determining her marker, her starting spot, her finishing spot. Ten laps sounded good. Five? Maybe she should just do one and see how close to death that moved her.

  Looking west, left, across empty field, towards the bridge, across Old Woods Road, she could see a couple of the railcars, sticking up above the sightline.

  Someone stood in the doorway of a railcar. Hopped out. Someone else poked out. Then went back inside. The other person climbed back up. Tiff squinted.

  All those videos recorded yesterday presented the action from a distance. The actors never really close up. And she’d never seen Millicent close up. Closest had been with Sipe, watching Millicent walk from Timbers Athletic to her SUV.

  The blue top, those red pants. There they were, over at the railcars, on display in the doorway, just for a moment before the figure moved back inside, and the someone else hopped on up into the doorway and vanished.