by Bodie Thoene
Anne glared at the trio of girls, who scurried off.
Leaning her cheek on her hand, Anne remarked flatly, “The Britneys of the world must die.”
Stephen smiled nervously. “No, now, you didn’t mean that, Annie.” His eyes locked on Kyle. “Or all that other stuff you said today, right?”
Anne arched an eyebrow. “Stuff?”
Stephen prodded, “How you are the night?”
Clifford jumped into the conversation. “And an alien pod germinating in Mrs. Harper’s bowels until you—”
Stephen’s glare silenced Clifford. “That was just to shock us. Right?”
Anne questioned, “Like how Marilyn Manson might really drive an SUV, Stevie?”
Stephen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Right.”
Clifford blurted, “Marilyn Manson drives an SUV?”
Principal Johnston approached and stood in front of Anne. Sheriff Burns and Mrs. Harper waited beside the police car. The principal announced, “Sheriff Burns would like a word with you, Miss Wells.”
Clifford, in a world of his own, mused, “My mother drives an SUV.”
With an odd sense of routine, Anne grabbed her backpack and stood. She decided to play her role to the max for the principal. “Who is Midnight really, Sticks-boy?”
Stephen evidently didn’t know if he was supposed to play along or not. “My horse. You know.”
Anne sneered. “That is, like, so original. And she’s like … black?”
The principal ordered, “Now, Miss Wells.” Without looking back, Anne headed for the police car.
The principal frowned at Kyle. “And Kyle, Sheriff says, ‘Don’t be late to work today.’ ”
Kyle drawled defiantly, “I’ll make an effort.”
The principal demanded, “Excuse me, Mister Tucker? You want to finish the year in Denton Juvie, son? You jus’ keep breakin’ your probation.”
Stephen grabbed Kyle by his collar. “He’ll be there, sir.”
The principal spun on his heel. “Make sure he is, Mister Miller.”
Kyle pushed Stephen away as the principal followed Anne to the car.
Clifford scowled as though he had just missed everything that had happened. “It’s powder-puff blue. Baby-proof windows and side airbags.”
Kyle shoved Clifford. “That’s cuz Marilyn Manson’s a punk, puky baby like you, Cliff. Right, Stephen? Isn’t Cliff a—”
Kyle’s eyes went cold as he turned to find Stephen’s attention fixed on Anne as she joined the sheriff and Mrs. Harper.
Chapter Nine
THE NEW HORSE was a two-year-old registered sorrel paint filly from Oklahoma named Shawnee. A wild little thing when she backed out of the trailer, she was already in the round pen with Potsy when Stephen got home.
He parked the pickup at the barn and climbed the corral fence to watch his grandfather work to gently bring the young horse into what would become a relationship of trust and submission.
Within a matter of minutes Potsy had the young animal following at his heel with the lead rope slack. “Like an old Labrador retriever,” Stephen thought.
Potsy stopped. The horse stopped. Potsy took three steps backward. The horse backed in sync.
Potsy looked up. End of today’s lesson. He smiled and beckoned to Stephen as he patted the filly. All was calm. All was bright.
“Thought you’d be home thirty minutes ago.” Potsy spoke as calmly to Stephen as he did to Shawnee.
Stephen leaped off the fence and accepted the lead rope from his grandfather. “Stuff goin’ on at school.” He led Shawnee toward her stall.
“What’s up?”
“Anne. In trouble, I guess.”
“You guess?”
Stephen could not bring himself to recite the events of the whole rotten day. “You know, she’s different.”
“Folks don’t like different,” Potsy commented. “Scares ‘em.”
Stephen halted. Shawnee halted. “And Kyle. Kyle hates her. She just … kinda works at making folks scared of her.”
Potsy took three steps and stopped. He glanced over his shoulder. “The more scared folks are, the more a filly’ll act out. It’s a way of takin’ control of a situation. You know that, Stephen.”
“She’s not a filly; she’s a girl.”
“Not a lot of difference sometimes. Nor between mares and women neither.”
“Potsy, did I tell you? She’s got scars on the inside of her forearms. Like she’s … well …”
“I know. Your grandmother heard about it from the church secretary.”
“And everybody’s talkin’ about it.”
“Then that’s the time for you to keep your mouth shut and stick tight.”
“Scars on her wrists.”
“Kinda like Midnight and her barbwire scars. Crazy, wild thing. Got herself caught in the wire and fought to free herself. Deeper the wire cut, the more she kicked. The tighter that wire wound.”
“Potsy, are we talkin’ about Midnight or Anne Wells?”
“Not much difference, is there? Scars always gonna be there, son. But you seen in Anne’s eyes what I see in this little filly here. She has a heart that wants to be right with heaven and earth …”
“I don’t know how to handle this, Potsy.”
“Folks, includin’ me, was ready to take Midnight to the killers. Your mama saw somethin’, like you seen something in this gal, Anne. Gotta be set free.”
“It’s hard, you know. She’s—”
“She’s bound up in hurtful memories. And all she knows how to do is lash out … but the more she does, the more pain will come to her.”
“What can I do?”
“Walk with her through it … and try not to get your head kicked in.” Potsy chuckled.
“How? How do I walk her through it? What can I say?”
Potsy shook his head, “Don’t look for words, son. People all around her already talk … talk and talk and talk … Talk about SY – CO therapy …” Noticing the surprise on Steven’s face, Potsy nodded. “Oh, yeah, they’re talkin’ all right … in town … ‘bout medication and happy thoughts. Some even talk about the love of Jesus. But folks ain’t livin’ the love of Jesus for her. No, this ain’t about talkin’ the talk. It’s about walkin’ the walk.”
Stephen remembered how Anne had winced when Susan gave her the friendship petition. “We’ve decided to face our fears and accept you just the way you are.”
“Cruelty under the guise of kindness,” Stephen reasoned correctly. One more twist of the barbwire around Anne’s heart.
Potsy took a step. Stephen followed his lead, and Shawnee came after with the lead rope slack.
“Remember, Stephen: just gotta walk the walk. Then folks and fillies will follow.”
Three stony-faced deacons sat opposite Adam in the church office.
“Pastor, couldn’t we just put up a Frosty or a Santa and call it even?”
Adam’s disapproving scowl made the three men squirm. “Santa?”
Deacon Brown shrugged. “Well, then, I don’t know … With Senator Cutter promisin’ to turn Main Street into a Norman Rockwell for yuppies outta Dallas, we’re inclined to think it’d be best if we let Sheriff Burns handle the ‘destruction of private property’ issue and leave all this constitutional business to a town fiscally sound enough for a Walmart.”
In the outer office a phone rang. Margaret’s voice filtered through the door. “… but he’s in a meeting …”
Adam pulled out the bag containing the scorched remains of the baby from the crèche. He placed it on his desk and leaned back in his chair.
The trio studied the artifact. “Oh, shoot,” Brown muttered. “Is that the Lord, Pastor?”
Adam steepled his fingers. “I’m aware that Leonard is struggling financially, brothers, but there is a greater struggle than a financial one at stake here.” The intercom buzzed insistently. Adam slapped the keypad. “Yes, Margaret? What?” He listened for a fraction of a second, then blurted, “Tell wh
oever it is that I’m in a meeting.”
Margaret’s voice was subdued but still loud enough for all in the office to overhear: “It’s the sheriff, Pastor. Wants to talk to you about—”
Squaring his shoulders and puffing up slightly, Adam interrupted. “About this church’s commitment to an infinitely more virtuous struggle …”
Margaret replied quietly, “Not exactly, Pastor.”
The deacons glanced at one another uneasily as Adam picked up the phone and punched a button to receive the incoming call. “Sheriff Burns? Adam Wells here … yes … yes … she what?”
The heavy metal of the jail-cell door thundered open, startling Anne and Adam as Deputy Williams entered the booking room. Sheriff Burns typed out a report with two fingers. Anne caught a glimpse of ex-Senator Cutter in one of the two jail cells.
The deputy announced, “Cutter is flat-out refusin’ to pay bail, Chief. Wants to spend the night.”
The blonde, heavyset dispatcher weighed in. “He’s waitin’ for the hairspray-and-teeth people to arrive in their broadcast truck’s my guess.”
Cutter, smug behind bars, fixed his gaze on Adam and then on Anne.
Sheriff Burns instructed the deputy, “Aren’t you supposed to be at a bank closin’?”
The officer slammed the confinement door shut. “On my way right now.” He hurried out of the office.
Sheriff Burns lowered his chin and addressed Adam as though Anne was not there. “All right, then. Is your daughter on psychiatric medicine of any kind, Pastor? And … do you own a gun?”
Anne felt Adam tense at the questions. He raised his chin defiantly. She knew he had taken enough. “Meet me in the car, Anne.”
She slung her backpack and, without a word, left the office and emerged onto the street. Her hands were shaking as she searched for a cigarette, then lit up and inhaled deeply.
Kyle’s voice behind her was like another blow to her jangled nerves. “We had a steady gig, playin’ at the Lazy T.”
Startled, she turned as Kyle dumped a bucket of dirty water onto the street. “I see you made it to work on time to avoid juvie.”
“Folks around here were comparin’ the Bullriders to the Oak Ridge Boys. On our way, I figured, to gettin’ our palm prints on the wall at Billy Bob’s.”
She retorted, “Wow. Really. Is that like gettin’ your fingerprints on the TV you stole from the motel?”
His expression hardened, lip curled in suppressed anger. “You’re not gonna steal my band, freak. Or Stephen.”
She took another drag. “I didn’t know you and Stephen were so in love.”
Kyle smirked. Then, swallowing his rage, he dumped the mop into the bucket and towered threateningly over Anne. Pulling out his wallet, he held a photograph of two eight-year-old boys at a water park. Shirts off. Arm in arm.
“Me and Stephen three weeks after he lost his old man. Practically had to nurse ‘im back to normal life. See what it says on back?” He flipped the photo over. When Anne looked away without interest, he fiercely grabbed her arm. Through gritted teeth he snarled, “What’s it say, freak?”
His hatred shook her. “That you’re brothers forever. Now let go … of me.”
Kyle, leering at Anne, released her with a shove. He fixed on the photo. “Little while after Stephen gave me this picture, he and I went whitetail huntin’ with my old man.” His eyes burned into her. “Stephen has this ten-point buck in his sights and he gets to thinkin’ about it.” Anne knew suddenly he was no longer speaking of the deer, but about her. “You know how it was, jus’ seconds from dead and not knowin’ it, and I guess he’s pityin’ it cuz he can’t pull the trigger …”
Anne, unsettled by Kyle’s inference, swallowed hard. “What’s your point?”
“The point, Inger, is jus’ cuz Stephen’s got feelin’s of pity fer things jus’ seconds from dead …” He leaned closer until his face was inches from hers. “… fer things that’d be dead already ‘cept fer dumb luck, is what I hear … don’t mean I do.”
Anne blinked up at him. How did Kyle know? Had Adam told Sheriff Burns what had happened to her? “Good. I’m glad.”
Now Kyle’s threat became more fierce and pointed. “Don’t be thinkin’ there’s any boundaries between you and me, freak. That’d be a mistake. You thinkin’ that.” He slipped the photo back into his pocket. “‘Specially when fam-lee’s involved.”
Sheriff Burns emerged from the station and in a glance took in the confrontation between Kyle and Anne. “Is there a problem, Tucker?” he demanded.
Kyle did not take his eyes from Anne. “No. No problem, sir. Jus’ invitin’ Miss Wells here to go to my house to see that trophy buck I got hangin’ on my wall.”
Anne’s heart raced. No mistaking Kyle’s threat.
A ratty, mud-crusted pickup rattled to a stop in front of the sheriff’s office. The bass line of some seventies’ rock band thumped. Kyle’s father, a wiry man in a greasy baseball cap, was behind the wheel.
Kyle’s eyes went cold as he backed off. Now it was his turn to be afraid. “I don’t get off fer two more hours, Sheriff.”
Sheriff Burns dismissed him. “He says he’s got something at home that couldn’t wait. Go on. Put up the mop and head out.”
Kyle brushed roughly past Anne. “See you in the morning, Inger.”
Hauling mop and bucket into the station, Kyle grinned at Adam, who held the “Some Happy Thoughts” poem in his fist.
“In the car, Anne,” Adam commanded as he opened the car door. “Right now.”
The ride home passed in deafening silence. So, Anne thought, I’ve screwed everything up again. She unbuckled her seat belt and was out of the car before it rolled to a stop in the driveway. Bursting into the house, she ran past her surprised mother and into her bedroom. As she threw herself across the bed, Kyle’s burning hatred and cold, snake eyes were the last thing she remembered before she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
The wind was up again, whistling around the corner of the house, when a quiet knock sounded on Anne’s door.
“Honey? Anne?” Her mother cracked the door a bit and peeked in. “Time to eat.”
Anne’s mind was heavy with sleep. “Not hungry.”
Adam loomed behind Maurene. “Get up, Anne,” he ordered. “Come eat.”
Reluctantly, Anne roused herself and followed Adam and her mother to the dining room. The table was set with familiar china and silverware. So Maurene had finally found the energy to unpack the dishes. The musty house smelled like roast beef and garlic bread. Baked potatoes and a heaping green salad were on the table.
Adam prayed a perfunctory blessing. The food was passed, and plates were filled.
Father. Mother. Daughter. Sitting down to a meal together. A real Norman Rockwell moment. The all-American family.
But no one ate. No one spoke as Maurene silently read Anne’s poem.
Anne, sick with the misery of the day’s events, stared down at her plate.
Maurene looked up at Adam. Her face was filled with pain. “It’s really very good, Adam. It has passion. A relentless Poe-esque use of imagery and a fierce sense of—”
Adam leaned forward. “It has alien pods, Maurene.”
“And slime,” Anne interjected, just to remind them that she was present at the discussion.
Adam blurted, “What?” It was as though he was surprised she was listening. He turned his attention on her then. Controlled and patronizing, he spoke too slowly. “Anne. Do you remember our discussion? Anne? Do you?”
“Yes.” Anne did not look at him. The roast beef was cold.
Maurene’s voice took on a hard edge, warning her husband. “All right, Adam.”
He reached across the table and snatched the poem from Maurene. “Then maybe you’d agree that saying your blood is like acid is not a happy thought?”
Maurene’s tone became angry. “Adam!”
He was relentless. “Would you agree, Anne, that saying—”
Tears brimmed in Ann
e’s eyes. “Yes! I agree!”
Maurene’s gaze burned into Adam. “All right. That’s enough.”
Adam bored ahead, going after Anne. “Do you want to get better, Anne?”
Anne raised her eyes and glared at her father. Maurene shouted, “That’s enough, Adam!”
He threw down his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Maurene picked up the poem. She spoke gently. “What do you mean when you describe the night as being barren and infertile?”
Anne implored, “May I be excused?”
Adam spat, “No!”
Maurene reached out to her. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that your father and I have been unable to have another baby?”
Adam argued, “This is not about us, Maurene!”
Maurene reached again for Anne’s hand. “Does it, sweetheart?”
“I would really like to be excused now.” Anne pulled away.
Adam argued past Anne. “This is about the fact that our daughter is—”
“—not a potential high school terrorist, Adam!” Maurene challenged. “That you could even think that!”
Anne studied their faces. She might as well not have been there. Might as well have been excused. Her parents battled through her and over her and about her, but they were really fighting some other battle.
Adam spoke through clenched teeth. “You’re excused, Anne.”
She jerked her chair back and stood but could not escape before Adam unloaded on her one last time. “Oh, and, Anne, I don’t know how you and your Magic Pillow are gonna learn my favorite hymn if the hymnal’s in the trash.” He reached down and retrieved the soiled hymnal, then tossed it toward her on the table. “Don’t let this out of your possession again.”
Anne grabbed the book and shoved it into her backpack before she stomped out of the door. And then she paused, hand on the banister, and listened.
Maurene’s voice challenged, “Did you even read the poem, Adam?”
“Of course I read …”
The clatter of dishes obscured his words. “Then you did not understand it.”
“I understand,” he defended.
“If all you’re upset about is the fact that your staff meeting was interrupted by some ridiculous call from the police … And I don’t care what post-Columbine procedure is—they have no business investigating a high school English assignment.”