Evangeline Page 6

  Friends, there was a time, back in the day, when Angeline sometimes pondered whether she was subletting space between her ears. Pinning my ass down, however, had proved elusive, and eventually she’d tucked those nagging suspicions away.

  Well, now they were back-- with that one disturbing question again tapping at her mind…

  Was she alone?

  Leaning against the dresser’s edge, she looked closer at her reflection, staring hard and deep into her eyes. I could feel Sister searching for me, thoughts probing like fingers through the dark and forgotten corridors of her mind. Some other time I might have introduced myself. But not on that day. Oh, no. She would have put a stop to my plans, and I couldn’t allow that. So whenever the girl brushed too close, I shrank back just a little bit more until she finally grew frustrated and quit with a pounding headache.

  I figured the crises had passed-- that I was in the clear again. Only I thought wrong. Instead of returning the pervie list to her keepsake box, Angeline did something totally unexpected. She tore that paper to pieces.

  No, no, no, no, noooo!

  I was too late. The impulse had come so abruptly that I had zero chance to swerve her mind around it. All I could do was watch helplessly as those tiny bits of paper went fluttering into the wastebasket.

  Angeline never intended to go to the Mohr’s on Friday night. Her paralyzing social phobia made the notion totally implausible. But after finishing Lady Chatterley’s Lover, she’d started reading Pride and Prejudice, and the deeper she ventured into Jane Austen’s novel, the more Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley began to resemble Mr. Caleb Quinn of Willowdale. By the time she’d laid that romance aside, Sister’s resolve to stay home had crumbled and she found herself in the kitchen, whipping up a fresh batch of shortbread cookies.

  Around nine o’clock she checked her look in the mirror, decided there was nothing to be done, and headed out to the truck with those cookies covered on a plate with tinfoil. The steady rain that had fallen throughout the day had finally passed and the heavens were clear, but the long driveway remained a muddy mess as Sister left the farmhouse under a waxing moon.

  From Hainesville it was a three mile straight shot up the County Oil Road to the Mohr’s house on the Knox County line. When Angeline drove past that dilapidated Victorian, she noticed a small bonfire burning out front, surrounded by kids that had come to party hearty following the Friday night football game. Vehicles were parked haphazardly along the roadside or in spots where the barbed wire circling the property had been torn away. But rather than pull over and join them, Angeline lost her nerve and drove right on by without stopping.

  Disgusted by her cowardice, she thought about continuing to the Interstate, crossing the country and plunging herself into the Atlantic Ocean. But gas was low, so instead she drove another quarter mile or so, turned the truck around and started back.

  On her second pass, instead of parking in front of the Mohr’s, she switched off the headlights and went bouncing into an open hayfield on the other side of the oil road. She found a spot that afforded an open view of the house, then parked the truck and cranked down the window. The faint twang of an acoustic guitar, the sound of drunken laughter and the sweet scent of fresh cut alfalfa came drifting into the cab. The crop was harvesting late this year, Angeline thought, before shifting her attention to the fire.

  There was a small group of teens gathered there. Most were boys, but a few girls had joined them, including one who was playing guitar and singing country. From across the field Angeline recognized a few of the faces from Willowdale High, but the one she’d come to see wasn’t among them. After waiting another half hour or so, she was thinking of taking her cookies and going home when Caleb came wandering out of the Mohr’s house wearing a sandstone colored Carhartt jacket and swigging a bottle of beer.

  As he joined the others around the fire, a lissome girl wearing a straw cowboy hat and denim coat wrapped her arms around him and Angeline’s heart sank. She recognized Susan Weaver, a senior at Willowdale and one of the prettiest girls at school. If Weaver was the competition, stick a fork in Sister because she was as good as done.

  Coming to the Mohr’s was a mistake. Angeline knew that now. She turned the ignition key and shifted the truck into gear. Only it wouldn’t budge. The heavy rain had turned that hayfield into a quagmire and the pickup was spinning its wheels.

  She pressed the pedal to the floor, but that only spun those tires faster and sank the Ford deeper. Angeline was freaking out now, pushing the motor hard in her desperate attempt to escape. The kids around the fire must have heard the engine gunning and the sound of rubber whirring against mud because their heads were craning toward the hayfield. One of the boys started walking that direction.

  It was Caleb.

  With growing panic, Sister watched him cross the oil road and enter the field. She cranked up her window then floored the gas pedal again and again, trying to escape the hole she’d dug for herself. It was all wasted effort, of course. That F-100 was buried to the wheel wells, and before she knew it Caleb was shouting at her through the glass, “Hold up! Hold up! You’re making it worse!”

  Angeline killed the engine, so mortified by her predicament that she couldn’t make eye contact with Caleb as he circled the pickup, nonchalantly sipping beer while checking the tires. When he was done he tapped on the glass. Angeline wanted to crawl into the glove compartment where she could die of acute embarrassment. Instead she surrendered to the inevitable and rolled down the window. It took every bit of courage just to look that boy in the eyes.

  “You’re stuck,” Caleb deadpanned.

  He milked the moment for as long as he could before cracking a smile. “Look, just leave it and come hang out. We’ll get your truck out later.” He swung open the door and extended his hand. “C’mon, Angel,” he smiled.

  Angeline was slightly taken aback. That was the name Father used to call her when she was young. “My little Angel,” he’d say as he tucked her into bed.

  Caleb read Sister’s expression. “Is it okay to call you Angel?”

  Sister nodded and took his hand, stepping down onto the spongy earth. As Caleb was about to close the door he sniffed the air. “Something smells good in here,” he said, then spotted the plate of tinfoil wrapped cookies on the seat. “Are those what I think they are?”

  He glanced at Sister. She felt the blush coming.

  “For me?” he asked.

  Angeline nodded. Now her cheeks were burning.

  “That’s really nice of you, Angel. Thanks,” said Caleb, taking the cookies and closing the door. “Mind if I share these?” She followed his nod toward the fire and felt a sudden grip in her chest. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you,” he said, starting that direction.

  Angeline didn’t budge. Her heels were dug in like a calf being dragged to a branding fire. The girl was as stuck as her pickup. When Caleb noticed this he stopped and said to her, “Hey, if you’re worried about my brother, don’t be. He’s gone to the reservoir just like I told you. These are good people, Angel. I promise.”

  He gestured for her to follow and started for the road again. “Better come quick if you want a cookie,” he called over his shoulder.

  Angeline’s overwhelming instinct was to flee. But really, where could she run except from herself? And standing in a muddy hayfield all night was hardly an option. So with a deep breath and a hard shove (no thanks necessary) she got her feet moving and trailed Caleb across the oil road.

  When she arrived at the fire, the boy was already handing out the shortbread cookies. “Hey everyone, listen up. This is Angeline,” he announced, pointing out Sister who stood at the fringe of firelight with eyes lowered. The girl looked as if she expected to get bombarded with her own baked goods. Instead Caleb’s friends greeted her like one of their own.

  “Come closer, Angeline. We don’t bite,” said the girl with a guitar in her lap.

  Sister took a few tentative steps toward the fire. Someone thrust an u
nopened bottle of beer into her hand and Susan Weaver gushed, “Oh, my God, these cookies are awesome.”

  “Excellent for the munchies,” agreed a tall, gangly kid holding his breath. In one hand was a half-eaten cookie, in the other a burning joint which he offered to Angeline. “Next time bake some of this shit inside,” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Go on… take a hit.”

  What the boy had in his hand looked a little like the cigarettes Father used to smoke.

  “It’s weed,” explained Caleb from the other side of the fire. “Marijuana.”

  Angeline had heard of this marijuana. Deputy Ted claimed it caused irreversible brain damage. That didn’t sound like such a good deal, so Sister declined with a shake of the head. The skinny kid shrugged and passed the joint along to Susan Weaver.

  “So where do you go to school?” asked Susan, before taking a drag.

  “Wwwwillowdale,” Angeline answered, pushing the word out like a painful turd.

  “Willowdale?” the skinny kid remarked. “No shit? What year?”

  Sister held up three fingers.

  “You’re a junior? Really? So am I. Where the fuck you been hiding?”

  In fact, Angeline had been hiding in plain sight. Life was so much easier when you could will yourself invisible. Only now she was the center of unwanted attention and felt herself shrinking away… like the time she’d farted at a pep rally and the row of students behind her had stood up and moved.

  “Hey, Soup. Try not to be such a douche, okay?” said Caleb.

  “Too late,” said the girl with the guitar, eliciting chuckles from the group.

  Susan Weaver patted the boy’s head. “Poor little Soupy. Nobody loves him.”

  “Jesus loves me,” Soup pouted.

  “He’s the only one,” deadpanned Caleb

  The friends laughed some more and continued poking fun at each other and Angeline began to relax. With the attention off her, the girl actually found herself enjoying their good-natured banter. In her own painful experience she’d seldom known anything but harsh words and cruel intent.

  In time her gaze found Caleb, smiling back at her through the dancing flames. He hoisted his beer in tribute, took a pull on the bottle, then looked beyond her and the smile dropped from his face. Angeline turned to follow his gaze.

  A red pickup was pulling onto the property.

  “Oh, shit,” muttered Soup. “There goes the party.”

  “Why can’t those jerks hang out with their own friends?” said Susan Weaver.

  Soup lifted a Styrofoam cooler. “They don’t have any friends.”

  “Yeah, but why do they have to come here?”

  “Because they’re fuckin’ ball busters, that’s why,” replied Soup, toting the cooler toward the house.

  Caleb suddenly had Angeline by the arm. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.”

  As he led Sister from the fire, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Two barrel-chested teens with shaved heads were emerging from the truck.

  “Who are they?” asked Angeline.

  “The Browers,” he answered. “Skinheads from up near Verdel. Nobody you’d wanna meet, trust me.”

  Angeline followed the boy around the side of the house into a field of alfalfa that glowed in the moonlight like a pond of silver.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as she trailed him through the tall grass.

  Caleb drained his bottle of beer. “Visiting some old friends,” he told her, before whipping the empty at the side of the house, shattering it against the rotted shingles. “C’mon. They’re over this way.”

  “Is Susan Weaver your girlfriend?” Sister awkwardly blurted out.

  Subtlety was a social skill Angeline had yet to master. But if the boy caught the drift of that ham-fisted question, he never let on-- either too drunk, too stoned or too kind to embarrass her.

  “Susan? Nah. I’ve known her since second grade. We’re friends, that’s all,” he said as they pushed through more alfalfa and entered the backyard. “Hey, my ride’s passed out in the house. If I get your truck out of the mud, could you give me a lift home later?”

  The question caught Sister by surprise. The prospect of spending time alone with Caleb was both thrilling and terrifying-- a combination that seized the girl’s mind.

  “It’s just a few miles from your place… over in Mineola,” Caleb added after she failed to respond. “That okay with you?”

  “Yes,” Angeline finally croaked.

  “Cool,” he said, then gestured toward the unopened bottle she was carrying. “You plan on drinking that?”

  Angeline had forgotten about the beer. With no interest in alcohol, she offered it freely.

  “Thanks,” said Caleb, before wading a few yards further and crouching in the waist high grass. “Here they are,” he announced.

  Angeline stepped closer and found herself in a small family cemetery, overgrown by alfalfa. Caleb rested his back against one of five weathered gravestones and said, “Meet our hosts, Angel. The Mohr family.” He popped the cap off his beer with the edge of a disposable lighter and took a long pull before waving the bottle toward the headstones.

  “Over there is Elizabeth… who died in 1862 when she was thirty-seven. Next to her is daughter Katie, who never made it past the age of three. And that’s little Michael.” Caleb was pointing to a small headstone with a lamb carved on top that had broken at the base and toppled into the grass. “That kid never made it past his birth day… and he took mommy with him.”

  Caleb leaned from the marker he’d been sitting against. “Must’ve sucked for Pete here. But you gotta give him credit, man. The dude kept going for another forty-three years. Right up until…” he read the inscription… “December 19th, 1905.”

  Caleb swigged the beer and turned to Angeline. “We’ve all got an expiration date, you know? Like hamburger. Someday they’ll carve ours in stone, too… just like the Mohrs.” He hoisted the bottle in tribute. “Here’s to you and the family, Pete. Thanks for having us.”

  The boy took another drink then gazed thoughtfully around the family plot. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of people they were, you know? What they looked like, talked like. How they got here. Why they even came.” He turned and slapped the headstone behind him. “I’ll bet ol’ Pete was a farmer… probably used to plow all this land around here.” He glanced at Angeline. “Your old man was a farmer, too, wasn’t he?”

  “He owned a farm. Buh-buh-but Daddy was never m-m-much for farming. He wah-was more for fixing things.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

  “Cars and such.”

  Caleb took a sip from the bottle and thought a moment. “Tell me more about him.”

  “Well. He wah-was always good to me. And he liked to sing. Muh-mmmostly songs when I wah-was young.”

  “Do you remember any?”

  “Some.”

  “Sing me one.”

  Angeline glanced away with a shy smile, shaking her head.

  “C’mon, girl. Don’t be like that. Let me hear those pipes,” Caleb prodded.

  But Sister wasn’t much for entertaining. Too bad, because the girl could sing. Her voice was pleasant and remarkably clean, without a hint of the stutter that butchered everyday conversation.

  After an awkward silence Caleb realized she wasn’t changing her mind. “Well, anyway… sounds like your dad was a good man,” he said. “Too bad you got stuck with Deputy Douchebag, huh?” He took another pull on the bottle then added halfheartedly, “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t like him mmmuch either,” Angeline admitted.

  This brought a smile to Caleb’s face. “Well, guess he couldn’t be any worse than my old man. Although technically he wasn’t really mine. More like some drunken asshole who gave me his name.”

  “I’m sorry ab… ab… abow…”

  Angeline had become stuck, so Caleb skipped ahead for her. “Don’t be sorry. I hated that prick. If you want to k
now the truth, it was a relief when he killed himself.”

  Most everyone that lived in that corner of Holt County knew the story of Dan Quinn, the man who perished at the railroad crossing in Mineola. Some had questioned why his truck was parked on the rails when the gates came down. After all, Mr. Quinn was from the neighborhood and knew the danger-- knew those trains ran all the time during harvest season, hauling loads from the grain elevators in Dawes County down to the Gulf. The answer, of course, was obvious to all but the most naïve. Even Deputy Douchebag was smart enough to know that Dan Quinn had parked on that grade to end his life against the plow of a Burlington Northern and Santa Fe locomotive.

  Caleb took another swig of beer and glanced around at the tombstones. “Anyway, what are you gonna do, huh? When you get dealt a shit hand, you do your best with what you’ve got. I’m sure that’s what Pete did when his wife and kids died. He kept going, right? That’s how I look at it, anyway.”

  He drained the rest of the bottle then hauled himself to his feet with the aid of Peter Mohr’s headstone. “Life’s all about the passion, Angel,” he said. “It’s like Jim Morrison said…” he paused and glanced at Sister. “You know Morrison?”

  “Does he g-g-go to Willowdale?”

  “No, man… Morrison’s not... never mind.” Caleb thrust his empty bottle toward the night sky and proclaimed in the husky growl of a dead rock n’ roller, “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, man, but I wanna have my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames.” Then he pumped his bottle in the air and shouted, “Alright, alright, alright!”

  From a dark stand of trees behind the house a voice shouted back, “Fuckin’ A right!”

  A skinny silhouette stumbled from the brush, zipping his fly.