Scribbles and Scrawls

by Bethany Votaw

  Their life now was like a little treasure hunt, stumbling upon new pieces of information about each other, new quirks and constant “I didn’t know that!” exclamations. Life was never boring now.

  “What made you want to leave?” Amy asked. She knew the answer; it was the reason he wouldn’t move back.

  “Only so many opportunities here. As beautiful as it is, which you will get to see later, there isn’t a glass ceiling to break through. It’s a thick brick ceiling that’s pretty low. I would be stuck selling insurance like my uncle. I wanted more. And now I have you, and I sure as hell wouldn’t drag you back to this place, despite the surrounding state parks and secret waterfalls.”

  “Secret waterfalls?” She grinned, and her eyebrows raised.

  “Yep, I’ll show you after dinner. It’s a mile loop, and it takes you to a little creek. We veer off the path a bit and follow it to a cute little waterfall and natural pool. Gorgeous. It’s my little secret.” He laughed. “Okay, the family secret. My cousins found it when they were looking for a place to smoke.”

  She laughed and shook her head. His cousins were wild as adults. She could only imagine what they were like as rowdy teens.

  She stared out the window, mentally calculating how she was going to make it through the evening. She couldn’t handle the cramps and the cold sweats again. The occasional vomiting was the worst. I know she is doing something to my food. She had gotten sick the first time, but chalked it up to nerves, meeting in the in-laws for the first time and all that. The second time was strange. The third time? Something was going on. She wasn’t going to be fooled a fourth time.

  When they walked inside, her husband greeted his large family, all in Spanish, and other than the occasional “tia!” she understood nothing. “Tia” means good, right?

  Tommy whispered in her ear, “She’s all riled up, upset we were late.” He winked, and they took a seat in front of their already heaping plates. Her mother-in-law tutted and tittered about, making sure everyone was seated just so. She was no more than five foot, but the way people reacted to the matriarch made her seem at least eight feet tall. The thread of Amy’s poorly woven plan was slipping away as she tried to sit in another place, and her mother-in-law got all worked up and made her move seats.

  She watched her husband smile and banter with some uncles—she guessed they were uncles—and she looked for an opening. Nothing. She decided she was making this up. The cold sweats and diarrhea were just symptoms of nerves. So, she cracked open a cold one and drank it, determined to relax and let her stomach enjoy the food. Mind over matter. Right?

  Amy shoveled the tamales and rice into her mouth. The family’s chatter died down as they all ate. She was thankful for the quiet. The Spanish language that swirled around her most of the evening made her drowsy, like her brain was working on overdrive to understand something she had no experience with. She was a fish out of water. A toddler watching the grownups talk.

  “So, you going to take her on the same hike?” one of his aunts asked. Amy was more than thankful for the English.

  “Yep,” Tommy said, stuffing his face with tamale.

  “Even after—”

  “Yep,” he cut her off. His face went a little pale—maybe he got a taste of the mystical “salt.”

  “After?” Amy mumbled, hoping he would elaborate, give her some sort of rope to hang on to. But he shook his head slightly and moved on to the next thing.

  She focused on avoiding eye contact with her mother-in-law as she waited for the salt to do its magic. But it won’t. It’s just nerves. She was wrong.

  Her stomach knotted and bubbled. Her face felt hot and flushed and then her body shivered with chills. She made it through dinner and even managed to get her shoes on for the hike, telling herself it was just nerves.

  “The trailhead is a few blocks down, figured we could walk there.”

  Amy nodded, swallowing down the saliva and rising bile. She held Tommy’s arm, and he chatted about how his cousin was thinking of leaving the family business and the drama it would bring. That’s what they were talking about at dinner, apparently.

  “And here is the trailhead. It’s kind of overgrown and a bit slick. Watch your step. The waterfall should be full and flowing fast, thanks to this rain.”

  Amy nodded. She only made it a few steps before she vomited in the bushes. “I can’t do this.”

  “What is going on?” he asked, turning back for her. “Is it a flu bug or something?”

  “It’s your mother’s damn salt. Except it sure as hell isn’t salt. She is doing something with my food.”

  The ride home was somber. She held a bowl in her lap and worked on getting her stomach settled. She stuck her nose out the open window and chewed on mint gum. None of those tricks helped.

  “You didn’t need to talk about my mom like that,” Tommy mumbled, driving with one hand, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t know what is going on, but that is a serious accusation. Her messing with your food.”

  “I just don’t feel good.” Amy rubbed her forehead. He is sensitive with his mom. Got it. A Mama’s boy. “I’m sorry. I was upset.” Is this our first fight?

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to take you on that hike. I guess I just wanted you to get out and move. I thought it would make you feel better, and to get away from everyone.”

  She felt like an ass. “I’m sorry. I really do want to see it, and I think it would have been fun to escape everyone for a little. Next time.” She patted his hand, trying to work the rising bile back down her throat.

  And a month and a half later, they were on that familiar country road, heading back to the in-laws. It was someone’s birthday this week. It was always someone’s birthday. She had her hiking shoes on. They planned to get there early and hike before the barbeque. Tommy was still so excited to show her the secret spot. She secretly thought he’d been trying as some romantic gesture. He fidgeted with his pocket, and she was sure there was some little gift in it. Maybe that pair of earrings she’d been eyeing.

  But they hit construction and were late. The family was already sitting down, and the usual greetings were made in haste as the sound of stomachs rumbling overtook the barking of dogs and obligatory greetings. They sat in their usual spots. But Amy wasn’t going to have a repeat.

  It was easier than she thought. It took only a moment. When Tommy was giving his mama a kiss on the cheek, she switched the plates. Tommy’s meal was in front of her, and Tommy would get to sample the special salt.

  And dinner was the best she’d ever had. Her stomach was still, quiet. She could enjoy the tacos and tamales. She could breathe easy, and she was actually ready for the hike when things finally quieted. The piñatas had been smashed, and she was more than ready to burn off the extra slice of cake .

  But the cramps hit him, and they went home early. She felt only slightly guilty. She drove home, relieved not to be holding a puke bowl and looking green. His cold sweats and cramps kept him up all night, but she slept like a child.

  It was in the morning when the guilt hit her, and she confessed.

  “You did what?” He gritted his teeth, and spittle flew from his mouth.

  This flash of anger made her recoil. She took an involuntary step back. “She, well, I just wanted you to—”

  “She did this?”

  He called her, and the next hour was screams and chattering in Spanish.

  Tommy’s mother cried loud through the speaker, “Sé que mataste a esa otra esposa. No dejaré que lleves esto a otro acantilado solo para verla caer.”

  His face paled, and Amy grabbed him some water. This was more than the food making him sick.

  A voice boomed from the phone. “Se que mataste al orto.”

  “I’ll be back,” he said to Amy. He left her, glass of water in hand, and she felt the need for a glass of wine. She sipped it, listening to music, and worked on deep cleaning the house. Anything to occupy her mind.

  Hours and a bottle of wine later,
her phone rang. “Hello?” she answered.

  “It’s your tia.”

  “What?” She tried to place the voice. So tia doesn’t mean good. What else am I missing?

  “The auntie,” the voice explained. “Auntie Rose?”

  “Oh, hello! Have you seen Tommy? He left in a rush, and I think he went over to your place?” Amy placed the face, just barely. She was one of the women at the table who’d refused to make conversation.

  “Look, I overheard the conversation between his mom and him. You should know that he had a wife once, before you. He took her on a hike, and she fell and died. And well, it was strange. I don’t wanna spread rumors but—”

  “Say that again?” Amy’s mind went fuzzy.

  “Something wasn’t right. Tommy’s mama didn’t want you to go with him.”

  “Go where?” Amy asked, sitting down, hoping the dizziness was the wine.

  “On the hike. You know, by the water.”

  “So she messed with the food? To keep me from going with Tommy?” She let her back rest against the wall and slid to the floor, but not before she locked the door. “Why?”

  There was a pause on the line as her mother-in-law yelled something in Spanish. Rose translated in a quiet voice. “She said she knows he killed the other one.”

  16

  Grandpa’s Gun

  He snuck the box into his room. Grandpa knew, of course he knew, but he acted like he didn’t. He just told the boy to keep the varmints in the box until they were big enough to release. They were little rabbits this time. The boy found them in the field and waited for days for their mama to come and get them. But she never did, so he put them in that little shoebox and gave them water and milk through a little water dropper. He picked grass and wrapped them in an old blanket to keep them warm. He’d run home from school and pick the best flowers and leaves to drop in their box, a taste of the outside.

  Grandpa told him it was time; he grew meaner the older the rabbits got. He’d slapped the boy for wasting milk, and the next day when the boy came home from school, a bushel of weeds in hand, he discovered an empty box.

  Grandpa slurred his words, “They were too old, and you know it. I warned you.”

  The boy knew he’d waited too long. But he soon found baby birds. He smuggled them in the house and poked holes in the top of the box when they were nearly big enough to jump out. He was going to release them. But he waited too long, and Grandpa got mad at their chirps and stomped the box flat. But Grandpa was nice after that.

  So, the boy went in search of something else. He found some mice. Grandpa wouldn’t like those, but Grandpa was happy for now. For a time. But when the rage and anger grew and bubbled at the surface, Grandpa took the box the mice were sleeping in and tossed them in the toilet.

  The boy couldn’t get any more critters after that. He had a kitten for a moment, but he liked her too much, so he hid her away in the neighbor’s barn. He saw her, from time to time, out in the field catching butterflies.

  But Grandpa got mad again and slapped the boy across the cheek for stealing his boots. Grandpa took his gun, the one that always hung by the front door, and marched outside. A shot reverberated through the wide, open plains.

  It was the family dog this time. The outside one, the old mutt Grandpa kept around to warn him of the neighbors and coyotes.

  So, the boy went and found some more baby birds, and he hid them under his bed, just where Grandpa would know where to look. That way, next time Grandpa got angry, he wouldn’t point the gun at the boy. He’d have baby birds to step on.

  Indie Authors Need YOU!

  Thank you so much for reading this book of strange stories! Reviews help more than you realize, so if you’d be willing, pop on over to wherever you purchased this book, and leave your review there. It would mean the world to me, thank you!

  Acknowledgments

  There were so many people (and things) who had a hand in this book. I have been compiling this collection over the last year and not many people were aware of my intentions of creating a strange book of creepy fiction, but now is my chance to thank them.

  First, I would like to thank my husband, Malachi. You got to hear me read a few early versions of some stories and were always willing to offer feedback. You are the biggest supporter of what I do, thank you!

  To my dad, Chris, for reading some early versions of these stories and your willingness to read more, even after you needed “to take a shower after that one story.” Sorry it made you feel gross (not really).

  To my mom, Mindy, because you are my mom and I love you. But I KNOW these stories are not your cup of tea... I will not be offended if you just pretend to have read this strange little book.

  To my in-laws, I am one of the few who can they not only love their in-laws, but they actually like them! John and Luvonne, your support (even though you really didn’t know what I was writing) means a lot more than you know.

  To my sisters, Cassidy and Jordan, thank you for inspiring some of these horrific tales. Just kidding! (Or am I…?)

  To my brothers, Anthony and Zach, you little men are terrifying in your own special way. Your new (legal) ability to drive has given me a lot to think about when it comes to life and near-death experiences. For that, thank you for the inspiration.

  To Kent Shawn, thank you for reading some weird and early versions of stories and giving me pointed and blunt (and painful) feedback. It was more appreciated than you realize!

  To my dear friends, Isaiah, Morgan, Ashton, Eli, Jahsh (not a typo), Kendra, Mark, Carley, Anice, Emily, Ashlyn and Suey. Most of you didn’t get a chance to read anything I wrote, but your constant support and encouragement really kept me going when, more often than not, it felt like I was shouting into the void. But you heard me and let me know.

  To my beta readers, Kent Shawn (again), Hannah R. Palmer, Victoria Wren, Orla Hart, and Richard Holliday, you all are the best writer friends, though we have never actually met face to face, (bless this thing called the internet). You are my writer people. (If you, reader, want some great reads in the future, you should check these people out!)

  To my cover designer (Qamber Designs) and editor (Katie Wismer). You both made my book come alive and I cannot thank you enough.

  To the many glasses of coffee, whiskey, and wine. To the long walks in alleyways and the beach, and to the insomnia. You also made this possible, in some way or another, and I don’t know if I should thank you or condemn you. Probably both.

  To you, my reader, for making it to the end of this strange little book. Thank you.

  About the Author

  Bethany Votaw started writing in college on little notecards in an effort to stay awake during chemistry. If you can’t find her, she is probably taking a nap on the beach or playing in a river.

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  Her work has been published in Everyday Fiction, The Book Smuggler’s Den, 42 Word Anthology, and many other fine journals.

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  Feel free to follow her on Instagram @bethanyjvotaw (where she tries to post regularly) or on Twitter @bethanyvotaw (where she posts nonsense) or sign up for her newsletter at www.bethanyjvotaw.com (where she sends important monthly updates and secret stories).

  Copyright

  “Scribbles and Scrawls” copyright © 2021 by Bethany Votaw.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction, any events or characters resembling actual events or people is purely coincidental.

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-7365636-3-2

  eBook ISBN 978-1-7365636-2-5

  First paperback edition June 2021

  Cover art by Qamber Designs

  Interior illustrations by Bethany Votaw

  Author Photo by Morgan Votaw with Refine Social Studios

  nd Scrawls