Уинстон Грум - Alabama Noir

Women tweeted, e-mailed, and called with their own stories. Subjects were dear and personal. Men listened.

Xenia took a couple of calls. A guy flirted with her and then proposed. Xenia laughed it off.

The Internet blew up. Social media numbers set records, then more records. News media trucks roamed around Birmingham broadcasting from the many Xenia parties, receptions, and concerts. Xenia had not sought the attention again, but it felt good.

She soothed the Internet crowd with Dr. John’s version of “In a Sentimental Mood.”

Then... “I know where you live, whore! You can’t get away from me. You’re the devil.” It was him! She knew it instantly. The Voice. She froze. Fear shot through every fiber of her body. The Voice, the one who had started the abortion rumor, the one who had terrorized her. “Yeah, I’m back, whore.”

The last time he had stalked and terrorized her, nearly driving her crazy. She became the victim of Internet bullshit and the many people who had nothing else to do around the world but share and forward Internet bullshit.

He had never been caught. Justin and John had tried. They’d worked with police and private cyber hackers. They’d invested in seminars. How to Bait and Catch the Anonymous Person Harassing You; How to Stop Online Stalking; How to Catch a Cyber Stalker. But the Voice was always two steps ahead. After it all became too much, Xenia had dropped off the grid.

Her mind now raced. What if he’s here? In Birmingham? What if...?

“You think you can move and get away from me?” the Voice threatened. “You think I won’t bring the wrath of God Almighty down on you? I’ll prove it to you—” The call abruptly cut off before he could finish.

Arnold had activated the security and tracking measures that John, Justin, and a young technology associate at the law firm had installed as they built the new studio. Arnold swiftly blocked another incoming call from the Voice. A call was immediately placed to the Birmingham chief of police, a good friend of Justin’s. Arnold switched the phone line to another caller. A different man who expressed his admiration: “Hey, Queen, we love you.” But the damage had been done.

Frozen, Xenia’s look to Arnold asked if the security measures were working. Were they able to track him? Could they locate him? Turn him over to the police? Finally get rid of him? If only she could be certain... she would not be so afraid. What if he really does try to kill me?

In the lengthening silence, Arnold cued up “I Can’t Quit” by Robert Cray.

She was surprised at how quickly the fear had returned. How quickly and immediately she felt threatened. Would she really be able to move on?

Arnold would not look at her. He nervously fidgeted back and forth between his iPad, cell, and laptop. His hands raced over the keyboard, clicked his mouse, and jumped from one piece of sophisticated equipment to another while red, green, and yellow digital lights flashed. Were the lights signaling that they had caught him? Did they have a line on him?

When Arnold finally made eye contact, she knew. His face loudly spoke his disappointment. The Voice had eluded them again. Damn!

Social media messages continued to flow in, all positives, all full of love.

We love you, Queen.

We’ll catch him.

The fight for Xenia’s soul was being fought over the Internet. Her mother and her grandmother texted, Be strong. Stay fierce. You’re the girl.

Emboldened and determined, Xenia ended it all with five words: “I have spoken the truth.” The simplicity reverberated in the Birmingham communities of Titusville and Woodlawn, in the suburbs of Vestavia, with fishermen in Maine, millennials in Japan, down below in Australia. #TruthMatters became the leading hashtag the world over.

The Voice did not return. The Queen relaxed. She reconciled herself to the life she had chosen. Could she handle it?

She played snaPz’s “Neva That.”

She signed off with, “Love, peace, and happiness to all.” With emphasis she promised, “See you again tonight at midnight.” Arnold grinned and nodded his approval. The show had been a big hit! She had made it all the way back. The Internet buzzed, people around the world expressing their joy.

Now she stood back, maybe ten feet from the front door. The Voice was all she could hear in her head. I know where you live. She wanted to move but couldn’t. The uncharacteristic hesitancy upset her. Deal with it , she told herself. Was she afraid to go outside? No! Yes! She was. Would they all be waiting? Would he be waiting? Deal with it , she repeated in her head.

The old framed cover of Esquire dated December 1986 grabbed her attention. Ronnie had left it hanging by the door so she would see it when she entered and when she left. The cover title read, What Are You Doing with the Rest of Your Life? She smiled. At seventeen, she had asked her dad, “Were you ever afraid of working at night?”

“Most nights,” he had answered. “It’s some interesting cats out after midnight. Got some threats when I started dating your mom. But that motivated me. Fuck fear , I’d tell myself. Once I started spinning the records and talking with the people, it was on.”

Her fear dissipated. Each step made her stronger. Arnold walked with her. You’re the girl echoed within her.

Then she saw him, a dark silhouette in the sunshine. The fear shot through her like a.38-caliber bullet.

Justin! It was Justin! The fear left. The terror subsided. The tenseness exited her body. She relaxed. An uncontrollable smile raced across her face.

Fuck fear , she thought, and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Gulf Shores

Betty dangled the first chicken by a yellowed leg above Russell’s head and waited till she saw his prehistoric eyes shift just a fraction up to see it. She’d worked the old wig onto it, poked a bobby pin through, and fastened it to the chicken skin as best she could. She waited only a second, let go, and marveled at how the fat old alligator snatched it out of the air. The wig had been made from Aunt Sip’s own hair, cut off when it was long and young, when Aunt Sip had no need for a wig. And now that Aunt Sip was old and sick and her real hair was falling out, she never wore it, go figure, didn’t even care if she was nearly bald and ugly as a troll.

The sky was clear and so bright blue you’d never know there was a hurricane coming into the gulf, supposing to hit land smack in the mouth of Mobile Bay. The tourists had already thinned out with the coming of September and the few remaining were packing up to leave before the storm. No one was taking time to visit the souvenir shop and museum, anyway. No one much stopped in anymore at all.

Betty climbed back down the little stepladder she’d set beside the pit. There were two chickens left in the sack. She’d taken them all out to thaw the night before. The butcher at Winn-Dixie saved and sold them to her for next to nothing after their color turned, which mattered not a whit to a gator. Russell was supposed to get one a day, but she’d held off feeding him the last two days and now was going to give him three at once. She thought he might like it that way better, more like in the wild, where some days he might catch something, and some days he might not.

Into the cavity of the second chicken she had tucked the reading glasses, gold watch, and stinking dental plate with two teeth snaggling down. Into the cavity of the third chicken she stuffed a handful of snot rags, a photo of Aunt Sip on the beach in Key West with maybe the man who was later half eaten by the shark, and a thimble Aunt Sip had stuck to her finger when she fell asleep that afternoon while sewing a patch of disintegrating calico back onto an old quilt. When Betty gently pried off the thimble, Aunt Sip had only murmured something she couldn’t understand, something like Never , and Mmm-hmm , and Onions, that’s what .