Family Thang Read online

  Scriccccccccck!

  “Damn this!” and took flight. Just as he was approaching cruising speed, his left foot touched down on a loose rock and he went sliding down the trail, face first.

  “Eric,” a woman said, “don’t run. It’s me.”

  He lay perfectly still on the ground. Me who?

  “Eric?” The voice came closer: “Eric, I can’t see you. Where are you?”

  He placed the voice. “Here… here I am!”

  A dark figure approached and knelt beside him. “Eric, are you all right?”

  “I’m all right.” He rubbed his knee. “I slipped. Mrs. Harris, what you doing out here?” She smelled of vinegar.

  She took a while to respond. “The same thing you’re doing.”

  “Body-surfing down rocks?”

  She laughed, a pretentious chuckle. “Take my hand, I’ll help you up.”

  He couldn’t see it. “Here,” she said. “Right in front of you.”

  He yelped, snatching his hand back. “Shit!” Something she was holding, something sharp. Flexing his hand he felt a thick liquid… Liquid?… “You cut my damn hand!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry, my ass! I’m bleeding like a stuck pig! What you got in your hand?”

  “A knife.”

  “A knife? What you need with a…?”

  He experienced the same bone-chilling fear as when the rabid raccoon started tracking him.

  “Give me your belt,” she said, casual tone, as if she were asking him to pass the salt and pepper.

  He started to say, “I don’t need a tourniquet,” but was struck with another epiphany, this one telling him to run and to run fast. Squeezing his wrist, stanching the blood flow, he tried to get up.

  “Don’t!” she said. “You move I’ll cut your throat.”

  A bullfrog croaked. Farther away an owl hooted. Death calls, Eric thought. He could take her. He would have to take her. She’d flipped her lid, blew it a mile high. One kick, he thought, one kick to her head.

  “Give me your belt,” she repeated.

  “I don’t have a belt. Don’t worry, I’ll wrap the sleeve of my shirt around it… if you let me get up.”

  “Then give me your socks.”

  Her head was right there; he couldn’t quite see it but from where her voice came it was definitely within kicking range.

  One good kick… “My socks are dirty. I’ll use my sleeve. It’s already torn. Let me up and I’ll do it myself.”

  “You got the wrong idea. Give me your socks. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

  “You want the socks, you can have the damn socks.” He bent forward and fumbled with the string on his tennis shoe.

  “Hurry up, please.”

  “Damn! I’m working with one hand here. Maybe if I could get a little help.” The smell of vinegar grew stronger, and he kicked out as hard as he could. By the feel of it, he’d planted one to her stomach. He sprang to his feet and hurried to the figure on the ground gasping for air.

  “Who got the wrong idea now?” Two more kicks. “Here are my socks! Shoes, too!” Another kick, this one with the ball of his foot, and she yelled in pain. “Cut me, will ya!” She started crawling away. “You running now, ain’t ya?”

  He let her get away a bit before starting after her. No need to hurry, he now had the upper hand.

  Later he would kick himself for not running away. He most certainly could have.

  She was hurt, sucking air, retreating. One more kick; he just had to deliver one more kick to let her know he wasn’t someone to be played with.

  His right leg reared back, posed to punt her ass at least ten yards, he heard an explosion and saw a bluish-white flame shoot straight up. He didn’t need an epiphany to tell him what it was.

  Heifer has a gun!

  She got to her feet, wheezing and coughing.

  “You still want my socks? You can have em!”

  “Get… heh heh heh… on… heh heh heh… the… heh heh heh… ground!”

  Eric sat down where he stood. “Is this regarding the ten I owe you? I swear I’ll pay you when I get it. I don’t have it now. I didn’t forget I owe you.” She didn’t respond. “Why you doing this to me? We’re almost family, you know, sort of. I’ve always considered you as family. Really!”

  “The socks, please!”

  Eric took off his shoes and socks and threw the socks at her.

  “The pants and underwear, please!”

  “What? What for? Why? Hell no! I’m not out here naked. You crazy!”

  “Give them to me or die with them on!” Her tone finally shifted, enraged and impatient.

  He wriggled out of his Levis and Fruit of the Loom and tossed them to her. Should he scream? Beg? Cry? Shit? And what the hell she wants with my underwear?

  “Lie on your stomach,” she ordered, “and spread your arms out!”

  What? He could already feel pinecones prickling his buttocks. “You cut me! I’m bleeding! Why you doing this to me? Why? I never did anything to you!”

  “Shut up! Do what I tell you and you might live.”

  Might, he thought, as he lay face down on the ground and spread his arms. Might?

  She stepped near. “Don’t be a fool!” A shoe poked his kidney. “One hand at a time, put your hands behind your back.” He felt something hard and cold at his neck. “Do you understand?”

  Covering his head with both hands: “Uh-huh.”

  “Not your head! On your back!” He moved his hands to his back and felt a knee weighting his fingers. “Don’t you dare move!”

  With his socks or underwear, he couldn’t tell which, she wrapped his wrists together. Just then, to make matters worse, he felt something crawling in his pubic. She tied his feet together with his pants, he figured, by the thickness of the material.

  Semi-naked, hand lacerated, hog-tied with his own clothes, his favorite silk shirt almost torn to shreds, a nutty witch with a gun and her knee on his fingers and a poisonous bug hatching poisonous baby bugs in his privacy, Eric started crying, hysterically.

  “Sss… ssumthin… ssummthing… crawling… in… my… prrrr… privacy!”

  She grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. “Serves you right!” Gave his head another jerk and hissed, “You filthy whore!”

  Her hand, guided by sharp fingernails, dug underneath his waist, working toward his pubic.

  “There it is,” she said, and instead of pulling whatever it was off, she pressed it against his skin with a fingernail.

  Eric gritted his teeth to stifle a scream.

  “It’s dead,” and grabbed his penis and squeezed extremely hard. “You’re not the big man you think you are, are you?”

  She released him and stood up. “Get on your feet!”

  Eric closed his eyes and tried to remember a prayer. Would he be blessed with two epiphanies in one day? One more, Lord, please!

  “You heard me, on your feet!” She grabbed his arm and helped him up. “Move!”

  It took all of twenty minutes for him to shuffle the short distance to the top of the hill. Ahead, not twenty feet away, he saw the moonlit outline of two cabins, the one on the left caved in, something on it, a tree maybe.

  She pushed him down to his knees. “Call her.”

  No, he wouldn’t do it! She would have to kill him. He’d hurt Shirley enough, more than enough, and he wouldn’t call her out for this psychotic witch to hurt her. No way! Uh-uh! He had some dignity.

  Eric shook his head. “No, I’m not doing it! You might as well kill me ’cause I ain’t doing it. She’s the mother of my child.”

  “Is that a fact?” He heard the gun cock and felt it against his temple. “Listen to me, whore, and listen good. You call Ruth Ann out here”—jabbed him twice with the gun—“or you die!”

  Ruth Ann?

  He didn’t owe Ruth Ann a damn thing. “Ruth Ann!” he shouted. “Ruth Ann! Ruth Ann, could you come out here for a minute!”

  Chapter 38r />
  The front door was open. Strange. “Sheriff Bledsoe,” he announced. “Anybody home?”

  Hand on his weapon he stepped in. Something’s wrong here, he could feel it. People in Dawson often left their doors unlocked, but they didn’t leave them wide open.

  “Hello! Sheriff Bledsoe coming in!”

  The living room looked in order. Into the hallway: “Sheriff Bledsoe! Anybody home?” Looked into all four bedrooms and the bathroom. No one home and nothing out of place.

  Heading for the front door he caught a whiff of vinegar. Had someone left a pot boiling? Pig feet? He walked into the kitchen and his stomach lurched.

  The kitchen looked as if a tornado had hit it. Everything in the cabinets and the fridge was on the floor. The kitchen table flipped over. This wasn’t an act of God; this was an act of man, an enraged man… or woman.

  He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Ida! She lied to her children about her husband having a will. One of them must have confronted her with the truth and she went cuckoo, stark-raving mad. Fiddle faddle!

  He slapped his forehead again. He had her, had her in the palm of his hand. She’d confessed and pleaded to be locked up. And what did he do? Nothing! Nothing except run her out of his office.

  Already he could hear the mayor’s reprimand: “So, Ennis, Mrs. Harris was at the jail voluntarily, her own volition, no coercion or assistance from anyone, pleading, begging to be locked up, because as she’d claimed vociferously, repeatedly, emphatically, she’d killed her husband. Tell me again, Sheriff Ennis Bledsoe, you did what?”

  From his stomach came a strident percolation… and then it erupted, spewing hot acid into his chest, throat, mouth, sinuses… Bent over, hands on his knees, he swayed side to side. After a long moment, the pain ebbing very little, he stood upright.

  Whew! The worst one yet. Do that in public and I’ll lose half the independent voters.

  Pain or no, he had to find Ida, before she hurt someone else, if she hadn’t already. One hand on his back, he walked out to the cruiser. Picked up the mike, put it down. No, he wouldn’t issue a BOLO for Ida. He had to find her himself.

  Lester was home, but he hadn’t seen Ida or Ruth Ann. No one answered the door at Robert Earl’s house. The young woman at Shirley’s home said Shirley was gone, claimed she didn’t know when Shirley would be coming back and couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen her. Obviously lying. Why? He didn’t have a clue.

  Wal-Mart, Fred’s, Piggly Wiggly, the library, he went inside each and traversed every aisle. No sign of Ida or any of her children.

  Waiting for the lone light on Main Street to turn green, he wondered where next to check. A drunk staggered down the steps of the old post office building and stepped into the middle of the street.

  The light turned green and the drunk fell in front of the cruiser. I don’t need this now! Two hands appeared above the hood… then an unkempt gray afro… bloodshot eyes… a small nose under a thin, wet moustache… and a big toothy grin.

  Sheriff Bledsoe was shocked. Reverend Stanley Walker slapped the hood with both hands and slurred, “Watch where the hell you going, Sheriff!”

  * * *

  “Who is it?” Ruth Ann asked.

  “I don’t know,” Leonard said.

  “Ruth Ann! Ruth Ann,” the voice called, “could you come out here for a minute?”

  “Eric!” Ruth Ann and Shirley said in unison.

  Robert Earl said, “Ruth Ann, you oughta go out there and see what he want.”

  “No!” Leonard said. “He might have a gun.”

  “He’s not the one,” Shirley said. “Robert Earl, holler back and tell him Ruth Ann is not here.”

  “Are you crazy! And let him know I’m in here. You holler and tell him. He’s your man.”

  “He didn’t call me,” Shirley said. “He called Ruth Ann.” Ruth Ann was thankful for the darkness: she could imagine the look Shirley was shooting her way.

  “Ruth Ann!” Eric shouted. “I know you’re in there! Come out and talk to me!”

  “What do you want?” Ruth Ann shouted back, praying he wouldn’t say something stupid.

  “I-I-I… broke my… head. I broke my leg.”

  “Somebody’s threatening him,” Shirley said. “That’s not Eric talking.”

  “Shirley,” Leonard said, “how do you know—”

  A brick fell to the floor.

  “Oh no!” Ruth Ann cried. “He’s coming through the fireplace!”

  “Robert Earl?” Shirley said. “Robert Earl?”

  “What?” Robert Earl said, his voice sounded as if he were outside.

  “Where are you?”

  “Shirley, if you don’t mind, would you stop calling my name!”

  “He’s in the chimney.”

  “The chimney?” Leonard said. “How did he get in—Robert Earl, what are you doing in the chimney?”

  “Take a guess. And stop calling my name!”

  “He’s hiding again,” Shirley said.

  “Figures,” Leonard said. “I hope no one pours liquid fire down the chimney.”

  “Wh-why would anyone do that, Leonard?” Robert Earl asked. “Why? Answer me—why?”

  “Robert Earl,” Shirley said, “get your scary ass out of there before you get stuck!”

  “Ruth Ann!” Eric shouted. “Help me, Ruth Ann!”

  Shirley moaned. “Lord, what if he’s really hurt. I’ve gotta go out there!”

  “Wait a minute, Shirley,” Leonard said. “Please! I said please. Ruth Ann, tell him you have a gun.”

  “I have a gun!” Ruth Ann shouted. “I know how to use it, too!”

  Three gunshots answered back and they all hit the floor. “Bad idea,” Ruth Ann said.

  “I didn’t tell you to say all that!”

  “Everybody all right?” Shirley asked.

  “I’m fine,” Leonard said.

  “Me, too,” Ruth Ann said.

  “Robert Earl?” Shirley said. No answer. Louder: “Robert Earl!”

  “What is it now?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! I’m all right. Will y’all please stop calling my name! I’ll let you know when I’m not all right.”

  “What are we going to do?” Leonard asked.

  Shirley said, “Only one door in and one door out. We could rush them. They can’t see any better than we can.”

  “Them? They?” Leonard said. “The only person I’ve heard out there is Eric. Shirley, don’t get upset. Eric intends to kill Ruth Ann, and he might kill us too if we get in his way.”

  “You’re wrong, Leonard. Eric doesn’t own a gun. Someone has him at gunpoint. He’s almost as scary as Robert Earl. You couldn’t pay him to come into the woods at night.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Leonard said. “We should put something against the door. The couch will do. Robert Earl, get out of there and help me push the couch against the door.”

  “Get Shirley or Ruth Ann to help you. Hey, wouldn’t it be awfully hard to haul liquid fire up a roof and pour it down a chimney?”

  “With a cauldron it would be relatively easy.”

  “A cauldron? What’s a cauldron?”

  “It’s made to haul liquid fire.”

  “Really? I’ve never seen one at Wal-Mart.”

  “You can’t buy it at Wal-Mart. Ace Hardware the only place has it.”

  “You’re not juking me, are you, Leonard?”

  “You’ll know when your scalp melts off your head.”

  “It’ll be too late then. Wouldn’t you smell it, the liquid fire? You’d smell it at a distance, wouldn’t you?”

  “ISN is odorless.”

  “ISN?”

  “Industrial strength napalm. And it sticks to your skin.”

  “Where you get that at?”

  Leonard hesitated. “AutoZone.”

  Shirley said, “Leonard, stop teasing the idiot and push the couch against the door.”

  Just then they heard f
ootsteps on the porch… a soft tap on the door.

  “Oh shit!” Ruth Ann whispered.

  The door creaked opened.

  Chapter 39

  “I’m not drunk!” Reverend Walker said, pushing Sheriff Bledsoe’s hand away. He was wearing a ruffled double-breasted charcoal-colored suit, matching pants and a pair of black Stacy Adams. A red tie, absent shirt, was knotted tightly against his wrinkled neck. He reeked of cheap wine and week-old BO.

  “Reverend, please, get in the car. Look, everybody’s staring at you. Don’t make me use the cuffs, Reverend.”

  Misery lights illuminating his face, Reverend Walker stared at the small crowd staring at him. Humiliation worked on his face, rheumy brown eyes going to the ground and back up to the crowd.

  Mustering dignity, he stood erect, pulled on the hem of his coat and said, “All right, Sheriff.” Unassisted, he staggered to the back of the cruiser and got in. The crowd cheered.

  Sheriff Bledsoe got behind the wheel wondering what the crowd was expecting. A beat-down? “You still live on Highway Eighty-Two, don’t you?”

  “Take me to jail!”

  “To jail?” and looked in the rearview mirror at the bottom of a pint of Wild Irish Rose. “Hey, you can’t drink liquor in here!” He switched off the misery lights and drove away, hoping no one saw the reverend upturn the bottle.

  “I can’t? I didn’t see a sign.”

  He drove past the jail. “Reverend Walker, I’m taking you home. I should take you to jail, bringing a wine bottle with you. You know better.” He made a right on Highway 82. “Reverend, my mother goes to your church. What she’s gonna think when she hears about this? What’s your congregation gonna think?”

  Reverend Walker laughed. “You don’t go to church, do you? Maybe your mother hasn’t heard the news. Reverend Walker tried to bury a dog.”

  Fifteen or twenty minutes to Reverend Walker’s house, Sheriff Bledsoe thought. Another ten minutes to get the reverend inside and give his condolences to Mrs. Walker. Plus fifteen or twenty minutes back to Dawson. Almost an hour lost, shot to crap, time when he should’ve been looking for Ida.