Evangeline Page 12

  “I need to t-talk to you.”

  Caleb refused to look at her. “Got your stutter back, I see.”

  “Wuh-what?

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he said as he stopped in front of the locker.

  “Puh-puh-please, Caleb. There’s something wrong with muh-me.”

  “No shit,” he deadpanned, tugging on the locker door. It stuck for a moment then jerked open with a loud rattle.

  “W-w-why are you buh-being so m-mean?”

  The boy exchanged books and was about to close the locker when Sister grabbed his arm with sudden intensity. “Caleb, I’m scared. There’s someone in muh-my head. Buh-but it’s not m-m-me.”

  He slammed the locker shut and turned with a blistering look. “Stay away from me, okay? Just stay the fuck away.”

  When Sister returned to the farm at the end of that hellacious school day, she intended to head straight for bed-- so depressed that she no longer cared whether she fell asleep and set free the devil inside her. But as she stepped through the front door, she encountered a gentleman wearing a dark suit and a bad comb-over sitting at the kitchen table. The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he greeted her with an awkward “Hello” from behind an open briefcase.

  That lawyer had good reason to feel ill-at-ease; his good buddy Deputy Gottschalk was up on the second floor howling and beating his fists against Mother’s locked bedroom door.

  “You will not do this to me again, goddammit!” he was bellowing as Angeline left the kitchen and climbed the staircase. “Unlock this door or I swear I’ll kick it down!” When his command was ignored, the deputy did as promised and put his boot to the wood.

  “Open it!” he huffed. “Open it! Open it!”

  Angeline squeezed past him onto the landing and scooted to her bedroom, quietly pressing the door closed behind. After a few more kicks and curses, Stumpy threw in the towel and retreated downstairs where Angeline heard him apologizing to his lawyer friend and pleading for another chance.

  “She just doesn’t seem keen on the idea,” the attorney was saying.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll sign,” Ted assured him. “I’m gonna take her goddamn door off the hinges.”

  Before Angeline could hear more, the scratched and crackling voice of Edith Piaf came drifting through the wall from Mother’s room…

  Quand il me prend dans ses bras

  Il me parle tout bas

  Je vois la vie en rose.

  Sister fell asleep to Piaf’s crooning on the old Victrola, and stayed that way right through ‘til morning when a loud banging jolted her awake. She came out onto the landing to find Stumpy knocking the posts from the hinges of Mother’s door with a hammer and screwdriver.

  It was a rude awakening, but that extended nap was just what the doctor ordered. Angeline’s batteries stayed charged through another brutal day at school, right until she came home to find Stepfather pacing the farmer’s porch in a particularly foul mood. Apparently he’d returned from a dentist appointment to find his lawyer friend had blown him off. Not only had the man failed to show for their follow-up meeting at the house, but he wasn’t returning phone calls either.

  “You see that lawyer on your way in?” Stumpy asked Angeline as she climbed the front steps.

  She paused at the door. “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Course you didn’t. God forbid,” he sneered. “Just get inside. You’re still grounded.”

  chapter eight

  By the tail end of the worst week in Angeline’s sixteen years on the planet, I’d grown tired of her silly little game of Katie bar the door. With no pressing engagements, I’d been perfectly content to let the girl burn herself out. But now that Friday had arrived, and with the after-football party at the Mohr’s just hours away, I needed to get rolling. If Angeline wanted to be a pain-in-the-ass and stand in my way, well, I’d just have to show the bitch who was boss.

  Friends, please understand that I loved my sister. I did. But your good and faithful servant wasn’t feeling so warm and fuzzy toward her during those difficult days. Dark thoughts had begun creeping into my head, and for the first time I considered a life without dear Angeline. It really wouldn’t be that hard. I could play that girl with my eyes closed. All I had to do was walk around with the weight of the world bending my shoulders and toss in a few sta-sta-stammers now and then.

  I mean, seriously. Who would know?

  Nobody, that’s who. I’d fool ‘em all.

  Around seven p.m., with Deputy Gottschalk watching over Holt County’s nervous pervies, and Mother barricaded in her room, the time had come to send Angeline to bed. I had a narrow window to drive over to the Cubby’s truck stop out on Highway 20, then hustle up to the Mohr’s and give the Brower boys a return engagement they’d never forget. Problem was, Angeline was being uncooperative.

  When the girl first felt one of her thudding migraines coming on she immediately grew suspicious. There was none of the usual curling up in bed and seeking comfort in sleep. Instead she fought back with aspirins and a bath, plunking her keister into a tub half-filled with hot water to draw the pounding blood from her brain to her buns-- a trick Mother had taught her years ago.

  To be perfectly honest, the girl’s shenanigans were starting to annoy me.

  With my window of opportunity closing, I redoubled my efforts, jackhammering my way into her mind. The vibrations seemed to shake Angeline to the core, because the girl suddenly sat bolt upright in the tub, grabbed her head in both hands and unleashed a primal scream that sounded a lot like…

  “Mommmmaaaa!”

  Within seconds the bathroom door flung open and Mother appeared in a frayed nightgown.

  “Something’s inside me, Momma!” Angeline cried out, reaching for Mother like a child fresh from a night terror.

  As the woman knelt beside the tub, Sister lunged and wrapped her arms tight around her neck. “I’m scared,” Angeline sobbed. “I’m really scared.”

  Mother reached across and pulled a towel from the nearby rack, then wrapped it around Sister’s heaving shoulders. “Stand up, child,” she said, “and let’s get you to bed.”

  Angeline was towel dried, helped to the bedroom and tucked in. As Mother pulled the quilt over her daughter’s trembling body, curled fetal-like and facing the wall, the shaken girl whimpered, “What’s wrong with m-m-me, Momma?”

  Mother took a seat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked Sister’s hair. “You have the sickness,” she told her. “Best you sleep now, child.”

  “But I don’t want to,” Angeline protested, trying to lift her head from the pillow.

  Mother pressed it down again. “You need to rest.”

  “No,” came the weary reply.

  “Rest easy, child… rest easy,” Mother cooed, stroking her daughter’s hair. In a moment she began reciting one of their favorite bedtime psalms.

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

  He leadeth me beside the still waters.

  He restoreth my soul…”

  Angeline’s eyes were fluttering. “No, I… I don’t… I don’t wa-wa-wa…”

  “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness

  for his name’s sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the

  shadow of death,

  I will fear no evil; for thou art with me.

  Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…”

  Before Psalm Twenty-three was finished, my sister had fallen into a deep and easy slumber. Mother pulled the comforter up tight beneath her chin, caressed her head once more then quietly slipped from the room.

  I swear I could have kissed that woman. Just when I feared Angeline had won our mental tug-of-war and screwed all my best-laid plans, crazy Momma had come charging in like the cavalry, rescued my ass, then rode right back out again.

  It was a Hunter’s Moon that night. A blood moon. Hanging large and red on the ho
rizon. It’s been said that Native American Indians tracked and killed their prey by that autumn moonlight. Tonight would be no different.

  On an unseasonably warm November evening, I drove south toward the Cubby’s truck stop, Elvira’s ensemble stuffed in a sack beside me. Because time was short (thanks to my dear sister) I’d have to dress on the fly. After breaking every speed limit from Hainesville to Highway 20, I arrived at the Cubby’s for gas. The closer move would have been the mom and pop Texaco on County Highway 108, but Deputy Gottschalk patrolled that stretch--mostly because it included the all-night diner where he enjoyed harassing the waitresses--so it was best avoided.

  As I paid the cashier and headed for the pumps, an old trucker with a faded cap and an empty smile fell in beside me and asked, “Have you heard the good word?” Then he tried pushing a pocket-sized Bible into my hand.

  “No charge for salvation tonight, young lady.”

  “Maybe later,” I responded curtly, ignoring the offer.

  I pulled a rusted metal gas can from the bed of the Ford and shoved in the nozzle. As I began pumping, that born-again never left my side. Christ’s soldier was determined to share his testimony and recruit my soul for the Jesus team. It was a waste of good air. In those madcap days I had zero interest in life everlasting-- or anyone who peddled it for that matter. Your trusted servant followed but one creed: Go ahead and screw yourself, but fuck with me and you’re dead.

  Brothers and sisters, the gospel according to Evangeline.

  Amen.

  I set the gas can back into the bed of the pickup and was lifting myself into the cab when the trucker came at me once again, positioning his body between me and the door. I snapped a quick look at Mother’s wristwatch. “I’m in kind of a hurry, mister,” I told him, not bothering to mask my aggravation.

  “Too much of a hurry to save your soul?” the trucker retorted with a hint of foreboding. He pushed the Bible into my hand. “Inside you’ll find all the--”

  “Back off, Moses!” I barked. “I’ve got enough fruitcakes in my life, okay? Go fuck up your own little world and stay out of mine.”

  “God bless you,” the trucker replied, stepping out of the way.

  “Same to you,” I shot back and slammed the door in his face.

  Yes, it was harsh, but the old fart deserved it. He was wasting precious time and wouldn’t take a hint. For thick skulls like that, sometimes you’ve got to drive the message home with the subtlety of a hand grenade.

  The Ford sat in the hayfield across from the Mohr’s house with headlights off. As the first partiers began trickling in, I switched on the dome light and leaned close to the rearview to check Elvira’s makeup. Everything looked good and I was hot for the action.

  The hometown team must have won again because the kids arrived in full party mode, chattering happily as they headed into the house with their coolers and cases of beer. More Willowdale students would continue drifting in for the next hour-or-so, including Caleb and Susan Weaver, but the sons of bitches I’d come to meet were still no-shows… so I cranked the heat and sat back to wait.

  Just before eleven o’clock, with the house a-rockin’, the Brower’s red pickup turned onto the property and parked. Kyle, smoking a cigarette and wearing a down hunter’s vest, lifted a cooler from the truck bed and followed his cousin toward the fire pit where a handful of teens had gathered. When they saw the Browers approaching the whole bunch headed straight for the house. Good thing those skinheads had the personalities of cheese graters, because I needed some quality alone time.

  I sat in the truck, biding my time, and watched those Nazi goons chug can after can of beer. When I figured they were primed and ready, I stepped from the cab and started across the oil road. It wasn’t the coldest fall night, but it was still November, and goose bumps were popping on my exposed legs.

  Kyle finished chugging a can of Bud Light and was turning to fetch another when he first laid eyes on me. I was standing on the edge of the firelight with their open cooler at my feet and an unopened can of beer in my hand.

  “Thirsty boy,” I greeted Kyle with a sultry voice, then flipped him the beer. “I’m Evangeline. Who are you?”

  “Name’s Kyle,” he said, squinting to get a better look at me. “This here’s my cousin, Danny.”

  Danny Brower swigged his beer as he looked me over. “You go to Willowdale?”

  “Yeah,” said Kyle, popping the tab. “You look familiar. Do we know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, slapping the cooler lid closed. I sat on it with my legs spread and the black dress riding high on my thighs. “Would you like to know me?”

  Judging by their hungry looks I knew the answer. Those leering apes couldn’t think past their own dicks just like they couldn’t see the Big Bad Wolf sitting right in front of them-- and that made those lambs an easy meal. By the time they knew what hit them, I’d have their pricks mounted and displayed like the bison on Stumpy’s wall.

  “Must be cold up there,” chuckled Danny, his eyes boring into my crotch.

  “Cold as a well digger’s ass, as my daddy used to say.” I leaned forward with my hands pressed between my thighs. “I could use help warming up. Either of you boys interested?”

  The cousins looked at each other like they’d just hit the Powerball.

  “Fuck yeah, girl,” said Danny. “I’m up for it.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” I said demurely, then nodded toward the Mohr’s house. “There’s a mattress upstairs. But I don’t do three ways. I’m just an old fashioned, one-at-a-time kind of girl.”

  “Works for me,” said Danny.

  “Abso-fuckin’-lutely,” seconded Kyle.

  Crossing through the crowded great room trailed by those two lusting goons, I spotted Caleb in the far corner partying with Soup and some of their football pals. As I snatched one of the lit candles near the staircase, Caleb noticed me, too. Our eyes locked for just a brief moment before I continued upstairs with Kyle and Danny close on my heels-- just a couple of dead men walking.

  They followed me onto the second floor landing and down a hallway littered with crushed cans and broken glass. I paused and knocked on a door that some failed artist had spray painted with an erect penis and the words FUCK PAD. When no one answered I took a peek inside then turned to the Browers and asked, “So who goes first?”

  Danny quickly threw up his hand.

  “I thought you might,” I smiled, then turned to his cousin and pointed at the floor. “You wait here, stud.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” answered Kyle, tapping a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros. “Just don’t take too long.”

  “You can lick my jizz when I’m through,” Danny said with a toothy grin as he trailed me into the room.

  The Fuck Pad wasn’t exactly five-star material, if you know what I mean. There was a lone twin mattress in the middle of the floor, its grimy fabric ripped and stained by cum and beer. I couldn’t imagine how many teens had fucked on that nasty thing. Hundreds maybe. And the rest of the décor was just as revolting, with used condoms and wrappers scattered amongst the requisite bottles and cans.

  “Alright,” grinned Danny, unbuckling his belt. “Let’s do this.”

  “Patience, sugar,” I told him, setting the candle upon the rotted window sill. “Patience.”

  I really hated to lay my naked ass on that disgusting mattress, but for my plan to work, I had to work the plan. So I tugged my panties down, hiked the dress up around my waist and laid back with legs spread.

  The sight of my coochie made that skinheaded bastard go plumb apeshit. Without taking his eyes off me, Danny yanked off his boots then wrestled with his jeans. At one point they hung up around his ankles and the boy nearly fell on his face-- which I enjoyed immensely. He finally kicked them free, along with his boxers, and scrambled aboard like a hungry dog to the dish.

  There was no foreplay. That eager brute tried penetrating me from the get-go, but I was dry as the Sahara down there and he coul
dn’t get his prick through the tent flaps.

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “Suck my dick,” he commanded, rolling onto his back like a dog.

  Just to get things moving, I went down on Danny boy. It didn’t take long to get his pump primed, and I crawled back aboard and squatted down on his cock, guiding it in with my hand.

  “Take it all, bitch,” Danny moaned. “Take… it… all.”

  “The bitch’ll take whatever you’ve got, honey,” I replied, grinding my pelvis on him like a well-oiled machine.

  Yes, boys and girls, Danny Brower was one happy camper that night, well on his way to orgasmic bliss. But I knew something that boy didn’t: Judgment Day cometh for our friend, Danny… and right soon. My hand crept down and felt along the bottom edge of the mattress until my fingers brushed against the grip of a hammer.

  You see, before leaving the farm I’d decided the Smith & Wesson snub nose .38 wasn’t the right tool for the Brower boys. Something more private was required, and I found it hanging on the pegboard above Father’s workbench.

  A claw hammer.

  Ah, yes. Daddy would have been so proud.

  I wrapped my fingers around the handle and drew the Craftsman from beneath the mattress without missing a beat, a bump… or a grind.

  “Danny likes?” I said, looking into the face of a dead man.

  “Fuck, yeah, Danny likes.”

  I was on the verge of whacking his thick Aryan skull when Kyle shouted from the hallway, “Hey, hurry the fuck up in there!”

  “Be a good boy and wait your turn,” I yelled back. “I’ll get to you soon enough.”

  “Yeah, shut the fuck up!” Danny shouted.

  “Sssh,” I whispered. “Just close your eyes, lover, and enjoy the ride.”

  He smiled and did as I asked. “Think I’m gonna cum,” he moaned.