The Transfer (3)

by Pa Rock
Storyteller


Ginger was backed up against the counter taking a long drag off of her cigarette and surreptitiously rubbing her posterior against the counter’s metal edge. One more hour was left on her second shift of the day, her third double this week. All of her tables were filled with truckers and other assorted miscreants who seemed to be grazing happily, except maybe for Fat Boy at number six who was probably out of coffee by now. Yep, there he was lifting his cup and trying to catch her eye. She would attend to him in a minute.

Ginger’s feet hurt, her back ached, and her butt itched the way it always did when Leonard the Love Muscle was about to make an appearance. Sixteen straight hours of slinging grub and making nice to over-sexed halfwits was more than any self-respecting tip-slave should have to endure. Tonight she was headed home to a hot bubble bath and at least two shifts of sleep – and God help the poor soul who tried to get in her way! Leonard would have to find somewhere else to exercise his muscle on this trip.

There were two people at table six, a rotund man of forty or so and a teenage girl wearing sweats who could easily pass for a rather rough young male. Carmen sat picking at her fruit plate and watching as her father heaped several soft-cooked eggs onto a stack of pancakes, broke the centers with his fork, and then covered the steaming mess with a thick coat of blueberry syrup. “That’s disgusting!” she snarled.

“No, that’s delicious.” Henry smiled across the table at his problem child. They seldom got to see each other any more, and in a way Henry regretted that fact. Ellen had passed away when the girl was seven, and Henry had never tried to delude himself into believing that he could parent. His role in her life had been to provide opportunities, but Carmen had parried each “opportunity” with contempt, insolence, and now violence. He knew that her mother’s death was a large part of Carmen’s continuing rage, but other kids lost parents without turning into what the Braden Academy had termed a “a budding young terrorist.”

“What are we doing here?”

“You can’t beat a truck stop for good food, Cow Pie.” Henry Gaston belched at his angry daughter. “These are the places that keep America moving.”

“Yeah, straight to the crapper.” She continued, “What are we doing here? What’s the point of this daddy-daughter road trip? Where are you taking me this time?”

“Home.” Henry replied simply.

“Home! I’ve got a home? Since when?” Carmen laughed bitterly and a little too loudly. “I’ve been living in dormitories since I was nine and now I’m going home! Well, you can just take that idea and cram it right up your fat…”

“So, you would rather go to another academy? I’m not sure there are any left that haven’t heard about you.”

“Emancipate me! I can take care of myself a hell of a lot better than you can or any of those adolescent prisons that call themselves schools can. I’m not going to be locked away again.”

Henry belched and smiled.

Carmen resumed picking at her fruit as she scanned the restaurant taking in the sideshows. The purpose of truck stops, she surmised, was so mutants like these would know where to find each other. This was like seeing the zoo from inside one of the cages, the one reserved for inbred baboons! One nearby tattooed primate was entertaining himself by flipping a spoon in the air and trying to get it to land in his coffee cup. Hopefully, Carmen thought, he was better at driving than he was at spoon-flipping. Another cretin at the same table was busy making art on his empty dinner plate with salt, pepper, mustard, and ketchup. From Carmen’s vantage point the emerging painting appeared to be a tiger with bloody fangs, or maybe some painted rocker from the eighties.

As Carmen’s gaze continued to take in the panoply of weirdness, she suddenly spied something with potential. A road-hardened specimen of a Big Rig Mama was sitting a couple of booths away enjoying an after dinner smoke and staring at Carmen. When their eyes locked, the trucker winked.

“More coffee, Sweetie?” Ginger leaned across the teenager and filled Henry’s cup without waiting for a reply. “How’s the grub?”

“Wonderful!” the fat man gushed.

“A sure cure for constipation,” his daughter interjected.

“That will do!” Henry banged the handle of the butter knife on the table to emphasize his sudden command of the situation.

“Don’t get riled up, Sugar. I’ve got a smart-mouthed kid at home just like him.”

“Stupid bitch!” Carmen snapped.

“Carmen!”

The tip be damned! Ginger had been through one hell of a hard day and she wasn’t going to take that kind of mouth off of anybody! Hands on hips, she assumed a power position by leaning in over Carmen. “What the hell did you just call me?”

The girl jumped to her feet without warning, a maneuver that caused their heads to collide and sent Ginger reeling backward into, and then over, a cart of dirty dishes.

It was now Carmen’s turn to assume the power position above the waitress who was flailing about on the floor amid the broken plates and table scraps. “I said that you are a stupid bitch. And while you’re wallowing in the garbage, remember this.” Carmen lifted her sweatshirt to reveal a pair of unbridled, hefty boobs. “It wasn’t a boy who put you there!”

The more reserved patrons began applauding, while their less couth road cousins were whistling and yelling for more. It wasn’t often that they were treated to a floorshow for the price of a burger and fries! Ginger was struggling to get up off the floor and screaming about stomping a hole in the smart-assed little dyke, but a wayward pat of butter sent her back into the mess, this time face first.

Carmen considered giving an encore by jumping onto the waitress and riding her around the restaurant like the rodeo cow that she obviously was, but that plan derailed when Big Rig Mama john-wayned her way into the fracas and began ushering the girl toward the door. An unlucky busboy pushing a mop bucket toward the calamity de jour got in their way, and the lady trucker deftly pushed him aside and into a table of six. The boy fell across his mop handle as he crashed into the table, a move that caused the bucket of sudsy water to pour out across the floor amid the carnage of the upended table. The mess was expanding exponentially, and fists and dishes were beginning to fly. Carmen and her escort managed somehow to navigate the mayhem and made it safely outside into the parking lot. A coffee cup crashed into the glass door as it closed behind them.

“I can take care of myself.” Carmen declared, trying to break free of the trucker and return to the melee.

The trucker let her go. “I know that. I brought you outside so you wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Well color me stupid. I figured you just wanted to get in my pants.”

The trucker laughed. “All in good time, Sweetness, all in good time. By the way,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m June.”

“Carmen.” Her name was punctuated by the shattering of the front window as it stopped the flight of a dinner plate that had been used as a frisbee.

“Come on,” June said, turning to walk away. “Let them peckerwoods percolate for awhile. We can climb back in there later and bust up the leftovers – if some pussy hasn’t gone and called the cops by then.”

Carmen hurried to keep up. “Where are we going?” she asked as they neared the far end of the building.

“I’m going to show you my rig. You’re up for some fun, aren’t you?”

“You bet.” Carmen was up for anything: drugs, sex with a stranger, canasta. She knew that no matter what the current level of violence was inside of the truck stop, Fat Henry would still be focused on his food. Anything would be better than watching her father as he struggled to test the limits of cholesterol tolerance and flatulence control.

When June led her around the corner of the building, Carmen found herself nose-to-fender with the largest truck cab that she had ever seen. “Holy shit!” she stammered. “You could live in that thing!”

“I do, as a matter of fact. That’s why the cab and sleeper are too junked up for company.” June led the girl past the cab and down the length of the extra-long trailer to its terminus which was planted firmly in the darkest part of the parking lot. Carmen stood aside while her new friend opened the right panel at the back of the truck. June lifted herself into the truck with the ease and grace of one who has performed the act innumerable times. She turned back and offered a helping hand to Carmen who allowed herself to be hoisted into the pitch-black chamber. “Follow me.” June directed. “Just two steps.”

The second step brought Carmen up against the back wall of the chamber, a wall that logically should not have been there. “Where is the rest of it?” she asked.

June had situated herself on the floor at Carmen’s feet and was leaning against the wall. “Hermetic seal,” she explained. “I’m picking up a load that I don’t want the dogs finding, if you get my drift.”

Carmen slid down beside June and assured her that she had caught her drift. She commented wistfully to the trucker that she wished she had already picked up her load so they could check the quality.


“It’s always primo.” June reached into her flannel shirt pocket and pulled out a nicely rolled, fat joint. “Here is a sampler from the last batch. I never leave home without a healthy supply.” She fired it up, took a long hit, and then passed it to Carmen. As Carmen took a couple of grateful pulls on the weed, June continued describing her transport business. “The real merchandize goes behind the wall, and this section is crammed to the rafters with bales of chicken feet.”

“Chicken feet!”

“Yep, chicken feet. The Chinese grind them into an aphrodisiac. Just what they need – more sex!”

Carmen was giggling as she passed the joint back to June. This was beginning to be one of the best times that she had had lately. Henry would just have to amuse himself with his pancakes until this scene in the truck played itself out.

“Seriously, I haven’t found a County Mountie yet who was willing to help off-load a truck full of chicken feet just to satisfy his idle curiosity.”

Somewhere toward the end of the second joint, June was lying on her back with her head in Carmen’s lap. A grope here, a squeeze there; it really was turning into a beautiful night. It was with a considerable reluctance that she finally disengaged and walked to the door. If Carmen would stay there (an easy option since she couldn’t move), June would go to the cab and retrieve her massage oils. The best part was yet to come.

Carmen thought it was hysterical when June jumped from the trailer and yelled “Geronimo!” like an airborne ranger. She was still laughing as June closed the trailer door and dropped the latch into place.

* * *

Never one to let good food go to waste, Henry Gaston had finished his meal in the midst of the riot that his daughter had precipitated. He folded a hundred-dollar bill and placed it under the coffee saucer, then rose and managed to dodge and weave his way out of the eatery with surprising agility for a man of his rotund stature. Minutes later he watched comfortably from his glossy black Hummer as an oversized tractor-trailer rig emblazoned with the words “Hendershot Collections” turned east onto the service road fronting the truck stop. Henry headed west.

The Transfer (2)

by Pa Rock
Storyteller


Ethan had howled himself hoarse. In the first thirty minutes of his imprisonment he had exhausted his entire repertoire of obscenities, with the choicer examples being used repeatedly like staccato blasts from an automatic weapon. That bitch whore Eleanor was going to die, she could count on that, and when she drew her last noxious breath, Ethan would be there pissing the paint off of her skanky face!

The furious teen had used his lighter to explore his cell. The walls, floor, and ceiling appeared to be solid steel. Ethan could see a tiny crack where the back doors came together in an extremely tight fit, and the opposite wall, which stood only about four feet from the doors, had a matching fissure that indicated that it probably opened to the remainder of the trailer. A small vent in the ceiling was providing a stream of fresh air. Ethan stood beneath the vent and reflected stoically that at least they weren’t going to kill him – yet. And then he wailed again, a scream intended to shatter the bolts on the gates of hell.

Ethan had beaten and kicked the steel walls of the cell until pain and fatigue numbed his rage. He collapsed into a pile on the floor and cried. He cried from frustration, he cried from fear, but most of all he cried from the realization that he had been outsmarted by her, that in one sudden and unexpected pounce she had won whatever game it was that they had been playing for all of these years. Stalemate to checkmate in less time than it would take to roll a doobie. Shit, he thought, she even got that! Oh, the bitch would die, all right! It would be a wonderfully slow death with snakes, and fire, and open wounds packed with the stinking feces of rabid, wormy dogs!

Ethan emptied his pockets. If he had a dime he might be able to wedge it into the crack between the door panels and then…and then what? He didn’t have a dime, anyway. His net worth right at the moment consisted of two nickels, four quarters, a sinus tablet, a couple of sticky, lint-covered mints, one twenty dollar bill, two condoms, a cigarette lighter that was nearly empty, and two cigarettes.

The realization of his imminent tobacco crisis seemed to drain away the captive’s spirit. Ethan peeled off his shirt, rolled it into a makeshift pillow, and lit the first cigarette. He stretched out on his back and watched the glowing orange tip reflect itself on the walls and ceiling of his steel tomb, a fiery sprite dancing across a dark and lonely landscape, a meandering muse being drawn into the metallic void. Ethan cried again, and then he slept.

* * *

The jolting of the truck as it started to move woke Ethan from a dreamless sleep. He was still in total darkness and had lost all sense of time, but his stomach declared that it must be early afternoon. He yelled for breakfast, and then he yelled with equal vigor for vengeance. When his enraged entreaties stirred no response, Ethan reached around and found his last cigarette. He fired up and inhaled deeply knowing that this would possibly be the high point of his day – if it was day.

Home Again (5)

by Rocky Macy

(Part 5 of 5)

As the ragged edge of morning’s first light crept into the cabin, Comfort was stirring her stew pot and gazing in bewilderment at the sleeping couple lying naked on her floor.  Somehow she would have to work around this new challenge while still managing to have a respectable Sabbath.  Of all of the times that the Lord had seen fit to test her, this, she knew, had to be His best effort.

“Wife, come here!”  Ephram’s sudden demand shook her from her deliberations and woke Thomas who immediately kicked his older brother awake.  Comfort threw her stew paddle aside and rushed to the bedside.

“What’s the matter? Have you been dreaming?” In all of their years and decades of marriage she had only heard Ephram cry out in alarm one other time – and that was the night of their deaths.

“I’m disappearing!”

“Ephram, show some patience and don’t pester me by playing the fool.  We have had a very hard night.”

“Something is happening!  Look!”  He placed her hand on the blanket covering his barrel of a thigh and slowly guided it toward his knee. All at once, just above where the knee should have been, her hand dropped flat against their straw mattress. As Comfort screamed, Thomas and Jeremiah bolted to the edge of the loft. Thomas, unable to control his forward motion, tumbled out of the loft and onto the floor where he found himself lying among the naked couple who had invaded their world late in the night.  Jessie jerked and gave a soft moan, as if acknowledging his entry into their union.

Ephram, sweaty and frantic, held tightly to the hand of his loving wife. “My legs are almost gone. I’m leaving, dear wife.  The Lord must be taking me.”

“What’ happening, Ma?” Jeremiah was as frantic as his father. “What’s happening to Pa?”

Abiah began screaming, and Thomas, taking stock of his surroundings, also began to cry.  Comfort, the stout farm wife who could normally be counted on to handle any number of catastrophes while still doing the work of two healthy women and a mule, found herself crying as well.  Her husband of more than a century was now just a head, and chest, and two arms. He would soon be no more.

And with the baby screaming, one son yelling and the other crying, and her husband frozen in panic, Comfort Miller had a startling revelation. “She’s conceived!”

“What?” Ephram stammered.

“The girl on the floor. She’s conceived, and the Lord has chosen you to go onward through her.”

Abiah was screaming more loudly now than she ever had in her long little life. In less time than it would take to catch a breath, Comfort ran to the cradle and plucked the baby from its haven. Rushing back to the bed, Comfort handed her youngest, the eternally sickly Abiah, to Ephram. “Take the baby, my loving husband, and watch over her always.”

“Always, my love.”

Comfort kissed her husband and daughter gently, and then, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, they were gone.

*  *  *  *  *

“What the hell!” The exclamation came from Bud as he sat up and found Thomas sitting squarely in his lap.  “Get off me you little pervert!” Bud slung Thomas to his feet, and the frightened child ran screaming to his mother.  Jeremiah jumped from the loft to protect his brother, but before he could act Comfort stormed forth and knocked him aside.  Then, behaving in a manner that neither of her sons had ever seen before, the newly widowed farm wife grabbed their visitor by the hair of his head and pulled him upright. The startled young man opened his mouth to say something, but before he could utter a sound, Comfort slapped him smartly across the face. A thin stream of blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth.

Bud touched his lip and stared in disbelief at the blood on his finger. Enraged, he began to move toward Comfort. “You stupid cow! What the hell was that for?” Instead of offering an explanation that she considered completely unnecessary, Comfort backhanded the youth across the face causing the other corner of his mouth to also begin bleeding.

“That,” she advised, “is what comes from staining the Sabbath with your foul mouth.”

“Jeez!”

Comfort raised her hand to commence a further discussion on blaspheming, but Bud stumbled backward out of her reach. He turned to bolt for the door and hesitated as he caught sight of himself and Jessie lying naked on the floor. “Oh, God, no.” Bud was still mumbling as his knees hit the dirt floor beside the young couple. “Wake up, Jessie!” He shouted as he tried in futility to shake the girl awake. “Wake up, Jessie! I’m having an awful dream!” Each time he reached to shake the sleeping girl his trembling hand slipped through her body as though it was only smoke. “Jessie! Jessie, please get up!”

Jeremiah came up and knelt beside the terrified youth. He put his hand on Bud’s bare shoulder and tried to give some manly comfort. “It will be alright. I was scared for weeks when we crossed over.”

Bud turned and looked the boy in the face. Much to his astonishment he found himself staring at a slightly younger version of himself.  “You’re saying I’m dead?”

“We all are,” Jeremiah replied, “except for her.”

“Oh, Jessie.” The boy turned back to the sleeping girl and lamented to the heavens, “What have I done?”

*  *  *  *  *

Jessie wasn’t surprised to wake up and find that Bud had died. She had felt him leaving her even as she slept. Jessie had her own ideas on God. Her vision of a just and loving God provided her with a sweet solace on this cold morning when she found herself alone and naked on the forest floor.

Bud had said that he killed the old man for his car keys, but even with the awfulness of that sin, Jessie knew somehow that he was now safely in the Lord’s hands being remade into His image.  The Lord would have His work cut out for Him with Bud, but Jessie knew that her God would see it through.

Jessie knew something else on that cold November morning. She knew instinctively that she was pregnant, or “with child” as they said in the Good Book. She was fourteen-years-old, unmarried, pregnant, and maybe heading to jail, but her spirit was in flight!  She was carrying Bud’s child, and while the Lord concentrated on the redemption of the father, she would see to it that the child walked the path of the righteous and rebuilt the family’s good name.  Raising Bud’s child, raising him right, would be her life from this day forward.

*  *  *  *  *

It was late afternoon by the time Jessie had placed the last stone over Bud’s dead body. She had found a rusty pickaxe in a long forgotten cave at the base of the hill and used it to scrape out a shallow grave and uproot a hickory sapling. The little tree now stood timidly at the head of the new grave, aligned perfectly with the five giant timbers. As she knelt and said a final good-bye, Comfort and her three boys stood silently to one side. Jeremiah and Thomas were deep in grief over the loss of their father and sister, and Bud was in the throes of a weepy shock as he contemplated his loss of everything. Why, he wondered, had he allowed his life to come to this?

Jessie rose and looked around.  She sensed the presence of the other mourners.  As much to them as to the grave she said, “Bud, I want you to know that you’re going to be fine.  Just be calm and take what the Lord gives you.”  Jessie wiped her tears away with a dirty hand before continuing. “I’ve got your baby, Bud, and I’m going to do right by him. He will be a wonderful child, and he’ll carry your name – Ephram Samuel Miller the Sixth.  And if it’s a girl, I think I’ll call her Abiah.  I’ve always thought that was such a pretty name.”  Jessie turned to leave, but looked around one last time to the grave and softly whispered, “Good-bye, Bud.”

The mourners parted out of respect rather than necessity as Jessie left the gravesite and headed out of the valley.  Jeremiah and Bud followed her as far as the highway. They stopped at the pavement’s edge and watched as she disappeared into the evening shadows. Bud wanted to follow, wanted with all of his heart to run after the girl who was carrying his child out of the valley, but his feet stayed firmly planted at the road’s edge.  They were both so young, and he had already corrupted her life almost beyond repair. Bud knew in his core – or was it his soul? – that she could only grow into a wonderful woman and mother if he remained behind.  He had to let her go.

“There’s nothing out there for us.” Jeremiah turned and began walking down the old trail toward home.  “Come on, Samuel.  We’ve got chores to do.”

“I’m right behind you,” the boy said as he turned his back on one life and headed off into another.  “But you’re going to have to stay close and show me the way.”

“I will, brother.  You’ve been a lost sheep long enough.”

Home Again (4)

by Rocky Macy

(Part 4 of 5)

Ephram was fully awake and had Comfort and the baby gathered at his side on the old bed.  They were staring in disbelief at the scrawny boy standing before the hearth and his sobbing young mate cowered in their doorway.  Ephram had often spoken of the “strangeness” that the Lord had chosen to visit upon them, but this night was clearly the strangest that they had encountered since they had stood silently watching their eldest, Samuel, bury their butchered remains.

“Oh, dear husband, whatever is happening?”  Comfort, always the family rock, was as near to being in a panic as Ephram had ever seen her. “That child is hungry, but he can’t see the stew pot.”

“Perhaps the Lord has used the aromas of your wonderful cooking to lead His lost lambs to us.” Ephram rose from the bed and walked over next to the boy. “Look at this lad, dear wife. He is so like our Jeremiah.”

“There is a strong resemblance, but he is older, closer to being a man.”

“Mama, who are they?”  It was Thomas peering over the edge of the loft. “Can I come down?"

“No!” Comfort snapped. “Stay where you are until we know what is going on.”

“But I need to pee.”

Ephram reached up and pulled his youngest son from the loft. “Come here, then. Our guests seem to be more bewildered than we are.”  He stepped through the apparition in the doorway and out into the night where his son could relieve himself.  When father and son came back into the cabin, the boy, Bud, had settled himself on the floor next to his mate. The young couple looked as if they, too, had spent a week hunting in the woods with no luck and few provisions.  Ephram found himself feeling as one with them. He lifted Thomas back up to the loft and then crawled into his own bed. “It would seem, dear wife, that there is little we can do in this situation other than to wait until the Lord calls us to act.”

*  *  *  *  *

“We’ve got to go back, Bud.  You need a doctor.”

“We ain’t going back. We can’t, not now.” The boy leaned his head onto her shoulder and clutched at his stomach with a trembling fist. “I think maybe I tore something loose inside when we hit that deer.”

“I’m going to walk back out to the highway and try to stop somebody. We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

“No, Jessie! Leave me be. If I go to a hospital, they’ll send me to jail. I’ll be alright in a bit.”

“We just stole a car, Bud. We’ll get us a lawyer and pay for the car.” Jessie was crying softly as she ran her fingers through Bud’s stringy and bloody hair.  “We’ll both work and pay for the car.”

The boy raised his head and stared into her teary eyes.  “It won’t work that way, Jessie.”

“Yes it will.  I’ll work real hard. We can make it the right way, Bud. I know we can.”

The boy curled up almost placing himself entirely within the girl’s embrace. “I ain’t been honest with you, Jessie.”  The tears that were flowing freely now were his, leaving the girl to hold tight and give him what physical comfort she could.  “I’m going to die, Jessie, and I’m going to Hell.”

“Oh, Bud, don’t talk like that! We stole a car and…”

“I stole the car, Jessie.  You told me not to do it.”

“We stole it. We did it, Bud, and we’re going to make things right with that old man.”

“It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not.”

“The old man is dead.”

“No!” She pushed him away.  “He ain’t dead, Bud.  He wasn’t even home.  You said he wasn’t home!”

“He was there, Jessie. He was there and I killed him.”

“No!  No!  You didn’t kill no one!”

“He was there, Jessie.  I told him to give me the keys and he just laughed in my face.  The stupid old shit laughed at me, you know, like he was something special and I was just some piece of crap kid who was only good for washing his damned car and mowing his stupid grass!”

“I don’t believe any of this, Bud!”

“The old bastard laughed at me. He laughed and he laughed until I picked up a table knife and jammed it into his throat.  And you know what, Jessie?  The look on his face when he knew he was a dead man was worth every minute that I’ll spend in Hell.”

“Oh, Bud.”  She quietly took him back into her arms and they slowly laid down and sobbed as one on the dirt floor.

*  *  *  *  *

Jeremiah and Thomas were both sitting on the edge of the loft watching the scene below. Comfort was up tending to Abiah’s needs, and Ephram was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed close to where the young couple lay. He was obviously deeply troubled about the scene that was unfolding on the floor of their cabin.  Jeremiah chose that moment to break his father’s concentration.  “He’s a killer, Pa.  He’s a killer just like them soldiers that killed us.”

“No, son.  He’s a boy not much older than you.”

“The soldiers weren’t much more than boys either,” Comfort reminded her husband.  “Foolish boys drunk on liquor and the power of guns.  Boys that should have still been at home chopping wood and milking, not off being corrupted by a war.”

“What do you suppose has corrupted this lad, dear wife?"

“Husband, I know not.  But corrupted he is.  Perhaps the Lord has chosen to leave us in this world so that we will not be tainted by what lies beyond our lovely valley.”

The couple on the floor began to quietly move to the rhythm of a music that the cabin’s inhabitants could not hear. Very slowly the boy brought his hand up beneath the girl’s shirt and started to knead her breasts. As soon as Comfort saw what was about to happen, she sharply told Jeremiah and Thomas to return to their blankets.

“But, Ma!” Jeremiah wailed. “This is the first time we’ve seen anybody else in almost forever.”

“Back by the wall and cover up. Things may happen that you don’t need to be seeing.”  Even as Comfort spoke Bud was validating her concerns as he slowly began to unbutton Jessie’s shirt.  “And you, my curious husband, kindly turn your back on this matter as well.”

“But, Ma!” Ephram said, mischievously mocking the plea of his son.

“Turn around now!” She snapped – and turn he did.

*  *  *  *  *

“No, Bud.”

“Please, Jessie.”

“It just don’t feel right.  Not here, not now.”

“I’m going to die, Jessie. I think that I’m dying now, but if I don’t die here, the state is going to hang me dead.”

“Oh, Bud.”

Her shirt was completely open now and the boy was slowly massaging her bare breasts. “This will be my last time, our last time. Jessie, please.”

And knowing from somewhere deep within her soul that the words he spoke were true, the girl relented.

Home Again (3)

by Rocky Macy

(Part 3 of 5)

“Bud, you’re bleeding, bleeding bad. We’ve got to stop.”  The girl fell to her knees at the foot of an ancient hickory.  “And I can’t go no more. Let them catch us.”

“Come on, Jessie.”  The boy grabbed the girl by the shoulder and jerked her upright. “There’s food up ahead. Someone’s making stew. Goddamn but that smells good!”

“I can’t smell nothing. Let’s rest a minute.”  She tried to stop again but Bud dragged her forward.

“A little further…over this way…past this thicket and…oh, shit!”

“What now, Bud?”

“Shit fire, Jessie! There ain’t nothing here.” Bud pulled Jessie out into the clearing. “Christ Almighty, I’m hungry!”

“Bud, don’t blaspheme. We’ve got troubles enough without you bringing the Lord down on us.”

“If he ain’t smoked us for stealing that car, chances are God ain’t gonna get his dick in a knot over the way I talk.”

“We wrecked that car, Bud.”

The boy walked to the center of the clearing and turned slowly, absorbing his surroundings.  Something was out there, some presence far more powerful than the tantalizing aromas of the phantom stewpot, and more dangerous than the police who would soon be stomping through the hills looking for him and Jessie. When his line of sight came to Jessie, Bud stopped. “Behind you,” he muttered.

Jessie wheeled about in fright. “What, Bud? What is it?”

“Graves.”

“Graves? What graves?” Jessie’s fright was quickly turning into hysteria. “I can’t see no graves, Bud. There ain’t nothing there but them trees.”

“Five big hickories strung out there in a straight line.”

“So?’

“And look at how tall they are.  These trees were planted at the same time.”  Bud walked over to the nearest hickory and placed his hands flat upon it, as if he were trying to push the giant over.  “These trees were planted to mark graves. People died here, Jessie.”

“Oh!”

Bud pulled his hands from the tree and turned to face the frightened girl. “Some of the old farts who play dominoes in the pool hall all day like to talk about ghosts and haints. I’ve heard them say that if you plant a tree at the head of a grave, the person who died gets to live on through that tree. Five people died here. That must be who’s cooking.”

“Bud, I’m so scared that I think I’m going to get sick. Please don’t try to make me feel worse with some dumb ghost story.”

“It ain’t no damned story, Jessie.  Smell that stew!”

“Nobody’s cooking.  You hit your head awfully hard on the steering wheel.” Jessie reached a hand to his forehead, but Bud jerked back as if he had been bitten. “Bud, your eye is almost swollen shut, and there’s blood coming out of your ear.”

“I’m okay.”

“And your shirt is soaked in blood.”

“I’m fine, damn it!” Bud spun around and began weaving toward the hillside. There’s a spring over here somewhere. I just need some water and a little rest.” The youth suddenly dropped to his knees and crawled into a bramble. “Here it is! Get in here, Jessie. This is the best water I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’m not going to go crawling around in no bushes, Bud. There might be snakes in there.”

“If I find one we’re going to eat him.”  Bud backed out of the bramble and stood up. “Here,” he said offering his cupped hand to her lips. “Drink this.”

Jessie let the cool liquid run down her throat.  “It is good.  How did you know where that spring was, Bud?”

“I don’t know. I guess maybe I heard it, or smelled it. I just…I just knew it was there, that’s all.”  The boy was beginning to shake badly as he put his arm across Jessie’s shoulder for support.

“Oh, Bud, you’re hurt bad.”  She led the way over to a group of stones at the base of the hill. “Let’s sit for a minute while I try to figure out what to do.  I just wish it weren’t so wet and cold.”

Bud stood up and began walking around inside of the old foundation. “It’s not cold, Jessie, not here.”

“You’ve got a fever.”

“No, it’s not that. There are ghosts here, they’re cooking and it’s warm. The food is over here somewhere.” He took a few paces and stopped in front of where the ancient cooking hearth once stood.  “Here it is, Jessie. Smell that wonderful stew.”

“Bud, you’re scaring the fool out of me. No one is cooking, and there ain’t no ghosts.”

“You’re wrong.  Look at the hickories.  This whole valley feels like a cemetery.”

Jessie turned back toward the clearing and saw that the mighty guards of the clearing were beginning to sway back and forth in the cold, damp, and very still night.