The Devil's Beating His Wife (5 page)

I glanced in my brother's direction. His eyes were unshadowed as he smiled at us. I couldn't tell if he was happy that at least his brother liked his wife, or if he was uncomfortable from the overly exuberant hug.

"Where's my little nephew?" I asked, needing to end the awkward reunion. It would be the first time I'd see the boy.

There had been another child. Molly. She had died not long after I first dropped into France, about a year ago. Mother had written to tell me of the child's death.

Her death had been Mary-Alice's ultimate sin. Little Molly had been left unattended in the bathtub as Mary-Alice listened to her favorite radio program in the living room. When Mary-Alice had finally remembered the little girl in her bath, it was far too late. She'd found Molly floating face down in the shallow water.

I could still envision Molly's pretty gray eyes and pale blond hair. I had been there when she was born. I had hovered over her small body, scrutinizing every tiny feature. I had been at her christening, promising to serve as her godfather. In spite of that, I couldn't recall any similarity between the faces of that sweet child and my brother.

His round, fleshy face appeared before my own. Just looking at us, one could tell we were related. We were Irish twins, barely ten months apart in age. If you listened to opinions around town, I was the good-looking one. I was rumored to have crushed many young girls' dreams and caused nightmares for their fathers.

Carver, on the other hand, had been feared for his wicked temper and brutal nature. I remember back when he was ten. He had trained a bunch of mice to do little tricks like fetching acorns and running in circles. When one mouse failed to learn, Carver lit its fur on fire. He watched the creature run and shriek as it burned to death.

"Your little nephew is down for his nap. Come on in. Mary-Alice'll make you some grub." Carver wrapped his arm around his wife's waist. His hand tightened, and he stared down at her. Some indescribable emotion flashed briefly on his face. It made me uncomfortable.

I walked by them and toward the small house. Carver rushed by me as I limped my way to the porch. He'd had his whole life to deal with his ruined leg. His movements were uneven, yet sure. My steps were less confident. I never knew if my leg would give out under me.

I walked slowly up the front steps. He pushed the door wider for me as we walked into his house. I could see him even though the interior of the house was dark. Carver turned, walked down a narrow hallway, and entered a tiny room that served as the baby's room.

When I finally caught up to him, he was standing beside the crib. I moved closer to him and stared down at the boy.

This little guy was a changeling. Generation after generation, all Carver males had favored each other. We were tall men with sturdy, muscular builds. We had golden blond hair and deep blue eyes. While in the Army, I had been mocked for looking more Aryan than the average German.

This little guy favored Mary-Alice. His hair was dark brown, and his skin was olive-toned. His eyes were closed as he slept soundly. I nearly nudged him awake so I could see the color of his eyes.

I looked at my brother and caught the clenching of his jaw. He stared down at his son, a touch of disbelief on his face. His gaze flickered upward and the amazed look was quickly hidden behind a mischievous grin.

"He's a handsome boy, little brother."

"Come on, let's see what Mary-Alice's got cooking."

His non-response was telling. I knew my little brother, and I knew what unnerved him. Because of the boy's looks, I figured he questioned the boy's parentage. I knew he had good reason to question Mary-Alice's fidelity.

"Would you like coffee, Baxter?" Mary-Alice stood in the doorway, wiping her hands with the edge of her apron. She wore a blank yet polite expression on her face. Carver approached her and took her into his arms. She kissed my brother, love and affection evident in her reaction.

When the kiss ended, she turned away with a satisfied smile. Carver walked over to the stove. Not caring about the popping, hot grease, he plucked a piece of bacon from the frying pan. He took a big bite of the bacon as Mary-Alice's hand crawled through his hair. Carver was solely focused on his food now, ignoring his aroused wife's attempts to continue their foreplay. Mary-Alice's head rested against his back. She sighed deeply, closing her eyes in contentment. I moved towards the table, startling her. Her eyes snapped open and she stared at me with a blend of arousal and curiosity.

Too many complicated layers in their relationship. It was giving me a headache. I grabbed a plate from the cabinet and began spooning scrambled eggs onto it. I wondered if they carried on like this when Mother and Father were present. If they did, it certainly explained my mother's continued animosity.

Carver's eyes snapped in my direction as if he only just remembered I was in the room. "Damn, big brother. Come sit down. Mary-Alice'll make you a plate." A large boyish grin spread across his face. He tapped the seat next to him. Feeling more than relieved, I handed my plate to Mary-Alice and joined my brother at the table.

"What's on your agenda today?" he asked. Pride shone in his eyes when he placed his hand on my shoulder.

Mary-Alice stood away from us, running her fingers through her hair. "You like biscuits, Baxter?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Pile them high."

My greedy eyes sought them out. Flaky, doughy, and, most important of all, fresh. They were heaven sent. Exactly how a biscuit should be. Our Army rations had containers of biscuits, but they reminded me of thick, stale soda crackers. I had to gnaw on them until the bread softened a bit, and then I'd bite and swallow a chunk. Those biscuits kept me full because they would sit heavy in my stomach for what felt like days.

"Eat up, big brother. There's plenty more." Carver grinned as he began forking slices of bacon onto my plate. After he'd piled a stack in front of me, he sat back and smiled with satisfaction. With his usual exuberance, he began to shovel eggs into his mouth. His lips smacked with each bite. This was the playful Carver that I knew and loved. Ever since we were children, he had chewed with his mouth open, talked with his mouth full, and burped with gusto.

"C'mon, now, Baxter. Get to eatin'."

The sound of an explosion echoed throughout the room. My body went into auto-pilot as a head-splitting wail sent me scurrying for the closest shelter. I could hear voices yelling at me.
Are you alright? Do you need help?
My hands slapped over my limbs, taking stock of any missing parts. A metallic taste filled my mouth. Blood. Was it a head wound?

Get up, Baxter. Get moving. Now!
The words roared through my head.

This structure was too vulnerable to sustain another hit. I needed to get out, and get moving to someplace more secure. Listening for bomber engines, I waited for the precise moment to run. Why weren't there blasts of anti-aircraft machines?

A hand appeared and wrapped itself around my forearm. It pulled me from my crouching position. The hand slapped across my face, and I stumbled against the table and fell to the ground. A blue pair of lady's pumps appeared in my vision.

"Could you have hit him any harder?" a woman hissed.

I blinked and shook my head. There was a ringing sound in my ears. The metallic taste was drowned out by the excessive saliva in my mouth. My body shuddered as I threw up acrid bits of scrambled eggs and strawberry seeds I had just consumed.

"You see what you done did?" screeched the woman. "You done knocked the sense right out of him!"

She stepped over my body. My hand shot out and wrapped around her ankle, causing her to lose her balance. Her body slammed against the oven and she slid down to the floor. My eyes connected with her face.

"Fuck." I reached out to Mary-Alice, but she cringed away. Her hand was on her forehead, covering an open wound that oozed blood. She placed her other hand on the ground and pushed herself to her feet. Moving to the sink, she wet a rag and pressed it to her head.

Carver grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. He took my face in his hands and stared deeply into my eyes. My gaze roamed over his familiar features, noting the downward pull of his lips. For several minutes, he held me, watching me carefully.

"I'm sorry."

"Baxter?"

"Carver. Mary-Alice. I—" The wailing sounds continued. Their high pitch registered deep in my mind. I sought out the source.

Carver's hands tightened for a moment. His eyes never wavered from my face. "Goddamn it, woman, will you shut that boy up?"

I glanced in Mary-Alice's direction. Her lips tightened as she stared at the back of Carver's head. Tossing the bloody rag aside, she left the kitchen and walked down the short hallway towards the bedrooms. I heard a bedroom door open and then the soft cooing sounds of a mother soothing her distressed child.

"Are you back?" Carver asked me.

I shrugged with confusion. Where had I gone? Back to Belgium, it seemed.

"That was just a truck backfiring," Baxter said, studying my face. "I didn't think it was that loud."

I dropped my gaze to the vomit on the floor. Steadying myself, I began to bend down to clean up the mess, but Carver grabbed my arm.

"I'll do it," he said, snatching a rag from near the sink. He sunk down to the floor and efficiently cleaned my mess. I stepped back, looking towards the hallway. I could hear whimpers. My feet led me towards the source.

When I entered the room, she shrunk away as if I was there to harm the boy. I dropped my head, knowing how crazy I must have seemed.

"That's a handsome boy," was all that I could manage.

Her hand cradled the back of his head. She bounced him in her arms while his scared whimpers lessened into the occasional hiccup. I walked towards her and placed the back of my hand against the boy's cheek. His head snapped up and he stared at me with the infamous Bennett eyes.

The creaking of wood alerted us to Carver's presence. Mary-Alice smiled in her husband's direction and walked to him, carrying their son. Carver never glanced at the boy; instead, his eyes were pinned on me. Concern was evident in his gaze. Alertness primed his body.

I smiled weakly. "Your family's safe with me, Carver. You understand? I would never harm your boy or Mary-Alice." My eyes darted towards the cut along her hairline. I felt my skin tighten with shame and disgust.

"I know you wouldn't hurt them." Carver shook his head. Sadness marked his features when he added, "Intentionally."

There wasn't any need to put words to his fear. The knowledge clenched my heart. "You know? I think it's time I made my way into town. To stop by and say hello to everybody." As I stepped towards the doorway, Mary-Alice pivoted away and carried her son into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Carver stepped aside and then placed his hand on my shoulder. "I'll give you a ride, Baxter."

I wrapped my arm around my brother and embraced him. Ruffling his blond hair, I pushed him away. "I'll walk. The exercise is good for my leg."

He glanced down at my leg and twitched his eyebrows.

Shaking off his concern, I tapped my damaged thigh. "Helps the muscles get used to my weight, you know. I'll see you later, Carver."

"Are you sure? It won't take nothin' but a few minutes. I'll grab my ke—"

I cut him off and moved around him towards the front door. "Stay and be with your family. Your wife and child are upset."

He glanced towards the bedroom and then shrugged his shoulders. "You're probably right, big brother. I never know what type of trouble my wife gets into when I ain't keeping my eyes on her." Those eyes narrowed on me.

I found myself fumbling through a swift and ungraceful exit. I had to balance against the railing as I made my way down the porch steps. Carver stood at the doorway, so I tried to minimize my limp. I had already emasculated myself once today. I didn't need to do so a second time by falling down the steps.

In the past, it would have only taken me a few minutes to walk from Carver's house to the main road. Now, it felt like a good quarter-hour. At this pace, it would probably take me an hour to make it into town.

The paved road was smooth, cutting its way through old dense woods. Railroad tracks ran parallel to the road. Some of the houses were tucked back half a mile or more from the road. Most residents lived on the north side of town, in Wilkinson County.

There were no cars on the road. It was too damned hot for unnecessary movement. Exercising was unnecessary movement. I was the only nut taking a long stroll on a country road. Shivers racked my spine as I grew closer to the road that led to Colsen's farm. I wondered what the old dump looked like now.

I glanced down the dirt road that led to the farm. Weeds had overgrown the lane. It looked like no one had visited the place in ages. The muscle in my damaged thigh began to clench with impatience. If I was wise, I would walk into town, stop at Dean Patrick's drug store, and pick me up a cane. But me and wisdom usually failed to have a meeting of the minds.

Thorny branches tore into my skin as I forced my way through the overgrown bushes that obstructed the lane. When I stepped on a brittle branch, a flock of crows flew from the nearby trees. A strange silence descended around me.

Old Man Colsen had been notorious for chasing people away from his land. He had been a loner, tucked away in the small farmhouse. For a long time, people had assumed he was mean yet harmless. It wasn't until his name became associated with a string of murders that the townsfolk realized what sort of evil lingered on this land.

"I could have sworn this house was closer to the road," I mumbled to nobody. My hackles rose the moment the house came into view. As I grew closer to the house, feelings of loneliness and despair threatened to overwhelm me. The house, on the other hand, seemed to seethe with rage. The front windows were all boarded up. The porch door hung haphazardly off its hinges, while the screen had a long slash that allowed half of the fabric to wave with the wind. The white paint was fading away, leaving a yellowish pallor underneath. Wind blew strong against the shabby foundation, creating a wheezing sound as the air pushed through the cracks.