Dogwood (26 page)

“He wants to talk with his mommy,” Eddie said to the others. “Isn’t that sweet?” He got in my face. “You don’t make demands here. You tell us or it’s over. Got it? And it’s over for the . . .” He paused. “Mommy won’t see the sunshine either if you don’t cooperate.”

I looked at them as I worked the blade out of my pants. I didn’t know how long it would take to cut through the plastic, but I had to get started.

“Tell us,” Elmer said, “or we’ll tie these cinder blocks around you and drive to the covered bridge.”

Eddie whirled on him and cursed. “Just shut up!”

Crickets and insects were out in full force. The fire crackled and warmed my back. A rage was building and I tried to fight it, to keep my head clear, to stay focused on survival and one step ahead of the enemies encompassing me.

“My mom can stay with my brother,” I said. “He was trying to get her to move in with him before I came back anyway, after my dad died.”

“That’s a real nice family story, but where’s the letter?”

“Tell Randy to take her to my brother’s place, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Eddie stood. “Boys, looks like we have a communication problem. What was it that guy said in
Cool Hand Luke
? A failure to communicate?”

They laughed as Eddie moved to the fire and pulled something out of it. At first it looked like a stick, but when he got closer, I recognized the metal rod I used to set the concrete. The end glowed red, and the other guys whooped and hollered when they saw it.

“I’ve tried to tell you I mean what I say. Maybe this will convince you.” Eddie stuck the metal rod to my neck and flesh sizzled.

I finally knew a little of what Elvis had gone through. The smell of the burned skin was nauseating, and he held it there a good ten seconds before he pulled away, taking a section of my neck with it.

“That’s a mighty good brand, Eddie,” Elmer said.

I slumped over and nearly passed out, the pain unbearable. But I managed to hang on to the blade as I fought. My hands were getting numb as I worked the blade back and forth on the plastic, and I’d cut the meaty flesh of my palms several times. Maybe I’d bleed to death before these guys could toss me in the river. But as the searing heat pressed against my neck and my arms tensed, I felt something move, something crackle, and I shoved the blade with all my might through the plastic—like a man biting a silver bullet.

“Now I’ll give you one more chance,” Eddie said, leaning close to me. “Where’s that will?”

“I don’t need it,” I said, writhing, shaking my head. It must have looked like a reaction to the pain, but it was actually a cover for freeing my hands. I saw the ceiling of the church, the cloakroom of my fourth-grade classroom—a way out. “The old tree. I almost shot my foot off down there. A big hole in the trunk.”

“That’s where he stashed it?” Eddie stood. “That’s how you’ve been paying for the construction. I knew it! Which tree you talking about?”

I threw my head back. “Past that pine grove—go to the fence and follow it about a hundred yards. At the end of the fence, where it turns and runs down the hill, you’ll see it. It’s in the shape of an L.”

“I noticed it when we came by,” Wes said.

“Grab a flashlight,” Eddie said. He looked at Elmer. “Stay with him.”

The car door slammed and the two men hurried into the night, the beam of the flashlight flitting on the landscape of my youth.

Fudd rubbed his hands together and laughed. “We’re gonna be set now.”

“Where’d you guys come up with all that cash, anyway?” I said, struggling at the last edge of the plastic.

“Had it all worked out till that lunkhead got involved.”

“Elvis?”

“Yeah. Eddie didn’t even know he was the one who took it until . . . Aw, why am I telling you this? Just sit back and shut up or I’ll give you another brand.”

I chuckled.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You really think Eddie’s gonna let you have any of that money?” I said. “You’re crazy.”

“We got us a deal—gonna split it even.”

I laughed. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“Just shut up.”

“You’re dumb as a stump. You know why he picked Randy and Wes? Because they’re stupid. You watch. We’ll hear a shot and Eddie’ll come back up the hill alone.”

“I said, shut up!” he yelled, and as he did, he moved to kick me in the face. It was a move I had seen a thousand times at Clarkston. Someone gets the upper hand and closes in for the killing blow, a kick that snaps the head back and renders the victim unconscious.

But I had worked through the plastic and felt freedom’s snap. I kept my hands behind me until I saw my chance. With the kick coming at my head, I caught his foot in both hands and twisted it, the knee cartilage stretching and snapping like a watermelon rind.

His face, shocked and unbelieving at first, now screwed up in pain as he focused energy on his leg. Unable to cry out or suck in breath, he went down hard on his back. By the time he reached for his gun, it was too late. I gave him a swift blow to the temple with it, and his body relaxed against the side of the house.

I spotted the flashlight beam that was now in the midst of the trees. I didn’t have much time before they found the tree and climbed up to see there was nothing in that hole. I checked the car for keys, but they weren’t in the ignition or over the visor.

I checked Elmer again. He had a pulse, but his head was lolled back, his mouth open, totally gone. I found his keys but his car was too far back in the woods, so I jammed the gun in my belt and ran.

There is a feeling of weightlessness running down a hill, like a child windmilling his arms as he heads into the unknown. My neck burned and my wrists ached from the biting of the plastic cuffs and the slicing of the razor, and the back of my head was on fire, but I was free and the feeling was even better than my release from Clarkston. My Sunday school teacher would have been horrified had she known I had lied my way to freedom, but I have come to believe there are some things you simply can’t explain to Sunday school teachers.

I glanced back but couldn’t see the flashlight in the woods. I figured I had at least five minutes. Instead of running for the driveway, I ran through the trees, leaning on my knowledge of the hill, the dips and swells, the rotted and decaying trees and the healthy ones. I hit my share of saplings, stinging me in the face as I rushed by, and tripped over a couple of rocks and went down hard, but I managed to regain my balance and keep going.

The house sits at the bottom of the hill in a small valley surrounded by a creek that cuts its way lazily through a meadow. I could see only the end of the house as I came out of the clearing, crossed the driveway I had built, and peered into the inky darkness. No lights on inside. I slowed to catch my breath, scanning the yard and driveway for a vehicle.

It wasn’t until I moved past the remains of the barn that I saw the orange glow of a cigarette in front of the persimmon tree. A man stood there watching the house. Was this Randy? Was there
someone else in the house? The second cruiser was behind him in the driveway. I had to believe they hadn’t harmed my mother.

I moved as quietly as I could to the hill, skirting the ashes of the barn and heading toward the creek. I reached behind and felt for the gun, but it wasn’t there. I had lost it in one of my falls.

I whispered a curse, wondering if they had really found the shotgun inside our house.

A radio squawk nearly sent me to my knees.

The man at the tree keyed the mic. “Yeah?”

I knew I only had seconds. I sprinted toward him through the grass, avoiding the gravel of the road I had built.

“He lied to us,” Eddie said, out of breath. “Bring the old bat up here and we’ll give him one more chance to tell us.” I slowed and crouched in a catlike pose, the way I had seen the barn cats hunt birds on the hillside. I was nearly to the tree. I could smell the smoke from his Marlboro.

“Got it. Be there in a few.”

As he replaced the mic and headed for the house, I hit him with a crushing body block. Carson had been all-state in his senior year, and when I came along, the coach was expecting someone a little heavier. He would have smiled if he’d have seen the hit I put on this guy. The first one knocked the air out of him with an “oof,” and I followed him to the ground, smashing his lungs flat as I drove my weight into his chest. I thought I heard a crack, but it could have been the clattering on our concrete walkway. He reached for his gun, and I punched him hard in the face. It took two hits in the back of the head with the butt of his gun to put him out.

The radio squawked again, and I could tell that Eddie was not in a good mood. I’d learned to imitate voices as a kid watching Rich Little and Frank Gorshin. I hadn’t heard this guy talk much, but I figured I didn’t have to. “Yeah?” I said, keying the mic.

“He got away. He’s probably headed toward you.”

“I don’t believe this,” I said. “What do I do with the mother?”

“Just keep her there. Look, we gotta find this guy. Don’t waste time trying to grab him. Shoot to kill.”

I figured I had done okay, that in the confusion on the hill Eddie hadn’t recognized my voice, but I couldn’t be sure. I raced inside and found my mother in her room, the stereo softly playing—a trombone and strings. She had a night-light on the wall, the same one I remembered growing up with, the face of the clown on the front. The thing had scared me rather than comforted me. I could make out her lumpy form under the covers.

I touched her shoulder and squeezed it gently. “Mama?”

She sat up groggily, squinting and looking into my face. “Will? What in the world?”

“I need you to get up and come with me.”

“Are you drunk? You stink of Jack Daniels.”

I wondered how she knew the smell.

“What time is it, anyway?”

“Mama, this is important. We don’t have time to discuss it.”

“Well, I’ll need to get dressed.”

“No, you don’t. There are some men looking for me. They’ll be here any minute.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. Now come on.”

“Will, running won’t help—”

I threw back the covers and picked her up. She was heavier than I thought, and the way she slapped at my arm didn’t help, but as soon as I got in the kitchen, she could tell I meant business.

“All right, I’ll go. Just put me down.”

I grabbed the car keys from the mantel and we hurried downstairs. A .22 caliber rifle sat on the stairs, a remnant of my father, who always kept a loaded gun there just in case. I grabbed it and flew into the dust and musty smells and cracking concrete of the garage.

“Who is it?” she said behind me. “Who’s after you?”

“Quiet,” I said. “It’s Eddie and some guys—”

“Buret? The new chief?”

“He’s the one responsible for Elvis disappearing.”

“No.”

“It’s a long story. Let’s just get out of here.”

She flipped the garage light on, and I quickly clicked it off and helped her through the maze of old lawn mowers, bikes, electric saws, and boxes filled with nuts, bolts, and tools. I tossed the rifle in the backseat, and instead of using the garage opener, I opened the door by hand to keep the noise down. I thought I might find Eddie standing there, grinning, but there was no one. I glanced around the corner and saw an unmoving lump of humanity near the persimmon tree.

“I’m worried about you carrying that gun,” she said as I got in and started the car. “That’s a violation of your parole and if—”

“I’d rather violate my parole than wind up dead.”

“Is it really that bad?”

I backed the old car out of the garage, keeping the lights off, and drove through the yard and over the septic tank buried a few feet below. “They told me they had you handcuffed to a chair and were going to use a shotgun on you.”

“Well, see, that wasn’t true.”

I turned my head and showed her my neck using the dashboard light. “This was.”

She gasped at the wound.

We headed down the long driveway and crossed the creek. Behind us, a car roared down the road I had built, its headlights piercing the night. I didn’t touch the brake but rolled straight onto Benedict Road and floored the accelerator. My mother had rolled a 1968 Impala into the rosebushes here when I was in grade school, so I had to be careful not to get too distracted, but I couldn’t help looking back at the police cruiser barreling toward our front yard.
We passed my abandoned truck and neared the corner. I let up on the accelerator and glanced behind us.

“They must have seen the guy on the ground and the open garage. They’re headed for the road. Hang on, Mama.”

I awoke after dark in a fog and Richard was there. My parents had gone home after he assured them I was okay. I just needed some rest. He sat with me and talked awhile, mostly about Will, my feelings for him, and what had happened long ago, though most of it was still blurry. I had known Richard as a kind and generous man, forgiving to a fault, but I could not understand why my revelation hadn’t brought up his own feelings. If
he
had been harboring an old flame, nurturing it and teasing it along, I would have been heartbroken. But he seemed unconcerned by the whole ordeal.

Maybe that’s what happened,
I thought.
Maybe he has his own feelings for someone. Maybe my revelation makes it okay for him to indulge in his own secret sin.

I tried to chase the thought away but it stayed. No matter what happened, our marriage and the church were in big trouble. I couldn’t imagine sitting in the atrium and talking with the ladies of the group again.

I called Ruthie but there was no answer. It had been my experience that once she drifted off to sleep, nothing would wake her
till morning. So I was left alone with my thoughts and what little praying I could do in my closet.

I knew from different sermons, preachers on the radio, and my own study that God had a problem with a wayward bride. His chosen people had continually run from him, then pleaded for his help. One crisis after another brought them back, begging forgiveness. They would receive it and then make the same mistakes again. I was not trying to fall in love with another suitor. I was not trying to leave the love of my life. But the events of the past few months had brought Will back with a vengeance.

Was I falling in love with the
idea
of him? Except for seeing him at the prison, I’d had no contact other than on the radio and through my memory. What would life with an ex-con be like? How could I even be thinking like this?

No matter where my scattered brain went, I knew something was drastically changing in my life. Something big. And Ruthie’s absence only accelerated the pain. It felt like the tide had been pulled out, and a tsunami of thoughts and emotions was about to crash down—or had already crashed and I was just rising with the tide, searching for a lifeboat, clawing for anything that would keep my head above water.

Ruthie had suggested my recurring dream could be about God and my soul. That he was interested in it fascinated me. How does he hear all those prayers at once without getting stacked up in a waiting queue?

“Your prayer will be answered in the order in which it was received,”
I imagined.
“Estimated wait time is . . . eternity.”

I couldn’t look at my quote books or poetry or even Scripture. I couldn’t pray. Didn’t have the heart. But I did manage to scribble a few lines in my notebook that night.

God,
I wrote,
I don’t know if you care about my heart or my life, but if you do, I desperately need you. Or maybe you’re already doing something and I’m oblivious. I don’t know how this
works. I’m at the end. Break through. I don’t want to hurt my kids. I don’t want to hurt my husband. I don’t want to hurt the church. And I don’t want to hurt you. Please help me.