Volt: Stories (13 page)

Walt’s ears grew hot. “I’m gonna leave someday,” he said. “Goin’ out west. You could come with if you want.” His voice was eager, unsure. “We could look out for each other.”

Walt heard voices down in the road, Lonnie and the girls wildly calling for them to come on. Moonlight poured over Hep. “It don’t matter,” Hep said, tears collecting in his broken eye. “Stay or go, it’s all the same. Went overseas to kill boys who weren’t like me ’cause them boys hated others who weren’t like them, neither. What that change? Put a black boy in that lounge, or one of them Jews, and see how it goes. Don’t care what Lonnie says. Burn a thousand bowling alleys, burn up the whole goddamn world, ain’t nothing gonna change.”

Walt followed Hep’s gaze out beyond the square to a long row of headlights approaching from the highway. Lonnie and the girls stood half-dressed in the funeral home yard, hollering for them to come on, that they had to get the hell out of there.

Walt stared into Hep’s tearing eye. He wiped Hep’s cheek with his palm. “What’s it all for then?”

Hep shrank away, turned to slump against the gleaming bell.

Then Walt didn’t want to believe Hep, desperately wanted to go back to how they’d been. “We gonna ring the bell, Hep?” he asked, trying to sound cheerful.

Hep struck the soft of his fist against the bell.

“Maybe we should ring it?”

Hep lay his face in his hands.

“Should we, Hep?”

Hep’s head lolled from side to side.

“Won’t never get another chance.”

THE DAUGHTER

1

Miriam lifted her face from the tabletop. She squinted, the sun glaring through the kitchen window. Pastor Hamby pulled out a chair and sat across from her, his eyes turned to the wall. The wallpaper was dingy white, a pattern of roosters and tractors and shocks of wheat, once red, now faded brown. Behind the pastor stood the sheriff, Helen Farraley, a big woman dressed head to toe in tan.

“How many?” Miriam said.

“Witnesses?” the sheriff asked.

Miriam nodded. Her daughter, Evelyn, stood like a sentinel at her side, caressing her hand.

The sheriff leaned back against the cupboards, held her jacket closed at her throat. “Staties got accounts from thirteen.”

“And none helped?”

“It happened fast, Miriam.”

“Not a single one to help an old woman?”

The sheriff stared at the floor, rubbed the back of her neck.

The pastor reached across the table and squeezed Miriam’s wrist. “Birdie,” he said. “I been thinking about something that plagued me back when I was starting out. About Christ carrying that cross to Calvary.” His eyes set upon her. “I mean, he had these disciples and all these followers, right? Folks who loved him, who thought he was the Messiah? And not one of them took up for him. Nobody fought for him. Not really.” The pastor lifted a salt shaker shaped like a rooster, but the bottom was loose and salt trickled out and he set it back down. “For a long time I wondered what that said about people.” He brushed at the salt on the table. “But then I realized it was just meant that way, what with Jesus up on that cross alone. God put fear in brave hearts and froze ’em over.”

An arc of salt, where the pastor’s hand had passed, remained on the table. “She die fast?” Miriam asked to the room.

The sheriff made a noise in her throat. “Probably didn’t see him at all. She didn’t turn, we know that.”

“All for a shitty truck.”

The sheriff shut her eyes a moment. “He was trying to get away, went after the first car he saw.”

Miriam pressed her daughter’s fingers to her lips, then pushed out her chair and stood. “What’s to happen now?”

The sheriff stood away from the cupboards. “There’ll be a trial,” she said. “Waste of time, you ask me. Guy was high as a kite, been in and out of prison his whole life. A dozen witnesses, security cameras from the supermarket.” She hung her thumbs on her gun belt. “Let me have him, is what I say.”

Miriam crossed to the sink, stared out the window. Down the hill, in the valley beneath the house, the corn rows spread shin-high and green, the leaves gleaming sunlight.

“If I was there,” Miriam said, without turning, “I’d of fought for Jesus. They’d of had to kill me. I’d of been but teeth and nails once they got me turned off.”

2

High pale stalks drooped against the heat as Miriam strolled the maze she’d had cut in her corn. Blackbirds mewling, the air reeking of the field, she blotted her neck with a bandanna and wondered what her mother would’ve thought of this maze. Miriam knew she’d disapprove, but it’d been a rough year, and they had plenty of money from Mama’s insurance, so what did it matter, after all they’d been through, her mother three months deceased and the trial soon to start, if Miriam simply wanted to get lost for a while, to take long dawdling strolls away from the world?

A scuttling broke out in the corn. Miriam stopped her stroll, flinched as a small gray terrier and a shaggy mutt burst into the hall. The gray dog paused, eyeing her, panting, then ran off. Miriam wanted to catch them, to pet them. She walked faster, trying to keep them in sight, but the corridor curved and there was only so far she could see.

Miriam thought them gone, when again she heard a rustling. She stood rigid, listening. The movement in the stalks grew near, then they broke into the corridor, the terrier and the mutt, with two young boys grasping at their tails.

The dogs scrabbled into the opposing rows. Upon seeing Miriam, the boys stood as startled wildlife, their bare chests heaving, their hair tangled, faces filthy. The older was maybe twelve, the younger a half-sized twin of his brother.

These were the McGahees, who lived with their father, Seamus, a sharecropper who worked a spat of land just down the road. That past July, the boys had shot bottle rockets at cars, blew up mailboxes all along Old Saints Highway, Miriam’s included.

“You ain’t allowed here,” Miriam hollered, stalking toward them.

They fled, their skinny arms pumping. Instinct told Miriam to chase them down and put them straight, but her legs felt wooden as she plodded over the uneven ground. The boys’ boots blurred in the dust. Their bodies grew small. One path split into two, and when Miriam arrived at the fork they were gone. The right path ended in a blunt wall of crop. But the left ran a slender curve into the sunlit expanse of the maze’s center.

Miriam rushed toward the light. Each step licked fire up her shins. Huffing, she burst into the clearing. Here the crop lay open in a circle twenty yards wide, with corridors shooting off the center like spokes from a hub. Across the rotunda, in the mouth of a hall, she glimpsed the hunched outlines of boys.

Miriam took a hard step in their direction, but a hand yanked her arm. She shrieked, whirled.

It was Evelyn. “I was calling after you,” she said. “Didn’t you hear me?” The girl stared into her eyes as might a doctor. “What you running from? Why you running from me?”

Miriam struggled to catch her breath. She glanced past Evelyn to the far corridor. The boys were gone. She tried not to cry, tried to stay strong for her daughter.

“Oh, come now,” Evelyn pleaded, clutching Miriam’s hand. “Everything’s fine, Mama. Everything’ll be just fine.”

Miriam sat before the vanity, gazed into the mirror and up at Evelyn, who stood behind her and brushed her hair. Twenty-one and fresh as rain, Evelyn had gone a year to the nursing college, still had an apartment in the city. Miriam told her she was free to go back, and now wondered why she stayed. Duty, she guessed. Pity, more likely.

“Let’s not be sad, Mama,” Evelyn cooed.

Miriam’s spine was a kinked wire. She shrugged.

“Can’t let them boys get you down.” Evelyn lay the brush on the table and picked up the eyeliner. “Come on,” she urged, with a grin. “Close your eyes and look up at me.”

“How can I look at you with my eyes closed?”

Evelyn shook the pencil at her. “I’ll pinch you, I swear.”

Miriam gave a grunt, but shut her eyes and tilted her head.

“What we need is a monster for our maze,” Evelyn said, and Miriam felt the pencil marking her brows. “A monster to gobble up little boys.”

Soon the pencil stopped, and Miriam opened her eyes to her own reflection, a menacing angular brow, eyes darkly shaded.

Miriam groaned a laugh.

“There’s that smile.” Evelyn kissed her mother’s head. “Now let’s have us a nap, and I’ll plan something special. An evening for a thousand smiles.”

Miriam woke from a troublesome dream, a scene of being stuck in a tree’s high branches, some unseen menace approaching, the mutt and the terrier frantically barking from the ground below, but she was too weak, too scared, to climb down. She rubbed her eyes, sat upright. Late-afternoon light slanted over the bed. As the dream’s feeling lingered, Miriam considered she might still be asleep.

Slowly she rose and wandered downstairs and out onto the porch. This was no dream. The valley was a maze, five acres of spirals looping like swine tails out to where the field met the knobs, like a doily had been draped over the land.

The screen door bumped open and out stepped Evelyn. Her giggling face was painted with rouge, her nose black with mascara.

Miriam spat a laugh. “Good lord, child.”

Evelyn laughed, too, her teeth absurdly white against her brown lips. “Now we’re just a couple of monsters,” she said, and gave Miriam’s shoulder a squeeze. “Get your bearings, then get on your shoes. I’ve got such a surprise for you, Mama.”

They carried baskets filled with candles, the good china, a chicken roasted with rosemary, spinach and strawberry salad, and two bottles of red wine. They followed the trail of twine Evelyn had unfurled while Miriam slept, the string snaking through the stubble, around bends and swags, all the way to the center.

In the rotunda, beneath the open dusky sky, sat a table with a white linen cloth. Miriam whistled and applauded as Evelyn lit tall white candles. They laughed and sipped wine. They had forgotten utensils, so Miriam tore strips of chicken with her fingers, plucked strawberries, one by one, from the salad. Evening gathered in the valley. Evelyn’s painted face grew dark. When the meal was done, Miriam was full and giddy and more than a little drunk.

The crop whispered, the corn swaying. Evelyn blew out the candles, pulled a radio from the basket and played an old bouncy tune Miriam loved. The sky hung a black cloth sprinkled with luminous dust. Miriam felt as if filled with the gentle breeze. She pulled Evelyn from her chair and together they laughed and danced in the field.

Miriam woke on a pallet of blankets. Through the morning mist, she watched the terrier lick plates up on the table. The black mutt was curled at her feet, its snout tucked into its belly. Miriam nudged Evelyn beside her and together they smiled at the dogs.

With scraps of chicken, Miriam lured the dogs back through the maze. The happiness from the night before remained. The mist gave way to a sterling sun, and Miriam decided she’d always have a maze. Would keep the dogs.

She named the terrier Pip, the black dog Wooly. On the house’s shaded porch, Miriam set out bowls of water. They left the dogs while Evelyn went to shower, and Miriam packed a basket for a picnic. But when Miriam returned to the porch to toss the dogs some chunks of ham, they were gone.

Miriam whistled for them, searched all about the hillside, walked her little barn, calling. But they didn’t show themselves. She stared back up at the house, wondering if Evelyn had finished changing, then heard voices down in the corn, a dog yelping.

She followed the noise into the field, raced in a frenzy down a corridor, peeking down the halls she passed. Then she saw them, the littlest McGahee awkwardly trying to carry Pip, his older brother, a quiver on his back and a hunting bow slung across his chest, slashing at Wooly with a metal arrow.

Miriam rushed toward them. The little boy dropped Pip and scurried into the rows. The older stood defiant, brandishing the arrow like a sword. Miriam pounced, yanked the arrow from his fist, and began to thrash his legs. The boy shrieked, holding out his hands as Miriam lashed his wrists, his shoulders. She heard Evelyn shouting but didn’t stop, and then the boy whirled free, welts striping his back as he dashed into the corn.

Then Evelyn was behind her, easing the arrow from her grip. The field and sky slowly spun. Miriam stood gasping, adrift in her own shuddering body, her own reeling mind.

“Just leave,” she sobbed. “Why don’t you just leave me?”

Evelyn shook Miriam once. “Stop it, Mama. You’re not the only one in this, you know.”

They didn’t speak the entire way back to the house. The hill seemed an endless climb. Miriam entered the shade of the house, wandered upstairs into her bathroom, and closed the door. As she passed the mirror she flinched at her reflection. The makeup was faded, smeared, but still remained from the night before. Miriam had forgotten about her face. What a sight she must’ve been.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub, holding her head. She eyed the little pink bath mat, wanting to go to sleep. But she could not lie on the floor, couldn’t rise, either, and then the door inched open, and Evelyn poked in her head.

She sat beside Miriam, took her mother gently by the shoulders. “Let’s have some lunch, Mama,” she said. “You’ll feel better with some food in you.”

Miriam nodded.

“Want a sandwich?”

Miriam trembled. “My face,” she softly cried.

They sat still, Evelyn holding Miriam tight. Then Evelyn crouched before her, her hands on her mother’s knees. “I’ll make up my face, too,” she said, smirking. “Just to be silly. We’ll find those boys and scare them off for good.”

The twinkle in Evelyn’s eyes was contagious, made Miriam chuckle. She leaned down and kissed her daughter’s hands.

They ate sandwiches on the porch, Miriam’s energy restored, her spirits lifted. Evelyn made them over, painting her mother’s face, then her own, both donning red masks with black-ringed eyes, gold hoop earrings hung from black noses.

They strolled the maze, arm in arm, laughing, singing improvised songs about monsters gobbling children. At the field’s farthest edge, an outbuilding’s aluminum roof peaked above the corn. Miriam pushed through the rows. Evelyn squeezed Miriam’s elbow, asked what she was doing. Miriam shushed Evelyn and pointed.

Over by the outbuilding stood a hickory tree, and from the tree hung a hammock in which Samuel Franklin slept. Samuel was Miriam’s oldest neighbor, had been her mother’s dear friend. They trod softly to his side, his legs dangled over the hammock’s ropes, his eyes twitching beneath their thin wrinkled lids.

A charcoal grill sat a few feet away. Miriam tiptoed over, quietly took out a briquette. She rubbed her hands black with the coal, then hurried back to Samuel. Gently, she dragged a finger across his forehead. Samuel didn’t budge, and Miriam held her breath to keep from laughing.

Soon Samuel’s nose, neck, even his ears, were black. They leaned their faces above his. Miriam brusquely shook his arm. Samuel’s eyes opened halfway, then he saw them and let out a little hoot, his arms flailing, and the hammock swung and Samuel flopped to the dirt.

They fled cackling like schoolgirls, tears in Miriam’s eyes and corn leaves slapping her face as she rushed into the rows. But then her eyes were stinging. Her lungs strained. She coughed, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see for the tears and corn. Miriam stumbled, reaching, grasping at the stalks.

Then Evelyn stood above her, sweat dripping rouge down the girl’s throat. Evelyn held her hand, hollered for Samuel. Soon Samuel’s black-coated face hovered above her, too. He gawked a moment, saying nothing, then cradled Miriam up into his arms.

Miriam lay held in the hammock. Evelyn pressed two fingers to her mother’s wrist and wouldn’t let her rise. Samuel stood beside her, his cracked old face dusted with charcoal.

“Think I understand some things now,” he said.

“Things?” Miriam asked.

He scratched under his collar. “This morning I saw Seamus McGahee in town. Hardly spoke to the man in my life, and here he comes over saying his boys saw devils in your field. Devils drinking and dancing.”

Miriam pushed away her daughter’s hand, struggled to raise herself upright.
“Devils?”

“What he said.”

“And what you say?”

“Thought the man lost his mind.” His eyes turned inward. “Didn’t know you all were out there that way.”

Miriam grabbed Evelyn’s elbow and swung her legs out of the hammock to stand.

“Miriam?”

“What?” she said, crossly.

“You’re kicking the beehive.” Samuel tapped a boot heel against the ground. “All this crazy stuff’s got folks talking. What with your mama’s passing and you so out of sorts.”

“I’m no devil,” she barked.

His eyes bulged white upon his sooted face. “Folks are talking just the same.”

“Your face is filthy, Samuel,” she said, like a slap, then tugged Evelyn’s hand and stomped off through the yard.

Miriam sulked as they worked their chores, doing laundry, dishes, cleaning the bathrooms. When she found Evelyn in her bedroom, changing her sheets, Miriam made her stop. Evelyn begged that they sleep in the house, but Miriam was adamant. It was her land. She’d not be told what to do.

That evening after dinner, their faces washed clean, they returned to the rotunda with a cooler of snacks, a jug of water, and citronella candles. The events of the day had left Miriam weary, yet sleep came in vexed shreds, mosquitoes buzzing her ears, the moon ducking in and out of the clouds. Deep in the night, Evelyn sleeping soundly beside her, Miriam could no longer lie stewing.

Since her mother’s death she often walked at night. Mostly, she’d paced the dark house. Sometimes stepped onto the porch. Once, she’d gone out into the drive and stared long at their old Ford. The truck that had been impounded as evidence. The truck from which they’d washed her mother’s blood.

Tonight her hands shook as she laced her boots, lost in the throes of a more desperate ache, an unsettled yearning to be apart from all things human. Miriam chose a corridor and pushed into the maze. She marched through the dark, Samuel’s words roiling in her mind. It was always the same. The same prattling voices, same narrow judgments. The world was the same, though Miriam had changed. She knew what they wanted. They wanted the old Miriam. Miriam in the choir loft, Miriam bringing chili to the potluck, Miriam judging rabbits at the fair.