Tom Piccirilli - November Mourns

“She kin to Luppy?”

“His wife.”

See that, the things you miss when you’re away from home.

Edging about on the heel of his boot, Dudlow looked over his shoulder in the direction of Luppy Joe Anson’s place, maybe four miles east into the back roads where the moonrunners raced. A variety of expressions crossed his face. “She’s seventeen, and they’ve been married for six months or so. Their love appears genuine enough, though I admit that if I had my druthers I’d request the juveniles of our community wait a bit longer before they made such important vows.”

“I wasn’t judging,” Shad said.

“No, but perhaps I do in a fashion. It’s so difficult for the children to stay young in a place like Moon Run Hollow.”

“Or anywhere.”

“So I hear tell. You’ve learned that firsthand, haven’t you?”

Normal life on the outside.

Lament started scratching at the damp earth, sniffing as if he was tracking quail in the weeds. A whine escaped his throat and he flicked his heavy tail once. The hound dog stared at Shad with a solemn intensity, took a few loping steps around Mama’s headstone, then sat in the dirt. Smoke wreathed Shad’s face and it took him a second to realize the preacher was leaning in closer, his breath frozen on the air.

“Well, I’d best be off. Welcome home, Shad Jenkins.”

“One more minute. What’s a member of the Youth Ministry do?”

“Oh,” Dudlow said, beaming, glad to talk about good and godly works. “Visits with our neighbors.”

Shad knew that was usually a euphemism for knocking on doors and handing out pamphlets. “Anything else?”

“Helps with the elderly. Cooks food for those families who’ve fallen on hard times.”

It sounded clichéd and a little forced, but Shad let it roll for now. “You let them go out in the hollow alone? Teenage girls? Into those hills?”

“The volunteers always go in groups of two or three.”

“That’s all?”

“Sometimes more,” Dudlow said, on the defensive and gesturing vaguely with his hands. “We want to make our brethren feel embraced, but I’m not a naive man. I take my responsibilities in safeguarding my congregation very seriously.”

With blackness creeping up to ply the back of his skull, Shad forced himself to see it.

Mags.

There she was. Seventeen years old, lovely and grinning, holding a Bible and some photocopied literature, maybe with donation envelopes or a mason jar for collections. Stepping up onto a shaky porch and knocking as the paint chips flaked around her shoulders, waiting patiently while some bitter, lonely wife-beating prick roused himself from a drunken stupor in front of the TV set. The game was over and he’d lost another twenty bucks on a bad defensive line. A bellyful of bile and three aching teeth. Got up with his belt unbuckled, only one sock on, kicked empty beer cans aside, and came to the door with the sunlight slashing his brain into juicy, throbbing slices. Just as Mags’s shadow lengthened to cover his stubbled face, the beautiful smile something he’d rarely seen before-hadn’t seen in years-while her gentle, buoyant voice asked for charity and offered an inviting hand. Talking about kindness, crafts shows, and church bake sales while his T-shirt, gummy with liquor and drool, slowly dried and stuck to his graying chest. His tattoos stretched and dull, the flesh pink as a sow’s ass. Suddenly feeling fat and old and weak, unbearably needy, glaring at her legs in the golden afternoon. Watching the swell of her young breasts, the blond down and freckles at the base of her throat. Asking her inside with the promise of a few dollar bills on his dresser. Want some lemonade?

Shad looked into Dudlow’s face and the preacher said, “Merciful Jesus.” He took a step back, tottered in a chuckhole and nearly fell over. “Lord a’mighty.”

“What?”

“Your eyes. So full of fury.”

“You expect something else from a man who’s just lost kin?”

“You’re primed and set to go off, Shad Jenkins. I can see it.” Wrapping the edges of his scarf in his fists, beginning to slip away. Scampering happily because murder was sort of pervy. “Who are you planning to kill? Who are you taking with you to hell?”

“I just want to find out what happened to my sister.”

Dudlow paced backwards another few feet, as if he might turn and bolt on a dead run for his microbus. “She went to sleep. It happens. Not often, praise Jesus, but it does. That’s the way of God.”

“That’s not good enough for me.”

It made Dudlow look around for help, even glancing at Lament, hoping the dog would understand and agree. He let out a sorrowful breath but his eyes were gleaming. “The more’s the pity.”

“Maybe so. We all have our course.”

“Come see me, if you need to talk. Before you… well, if you’d like to chat.”

“Sure.”

Preacher Dudlow trundled off so quickly that the orange flaps over his ears popped up as he made his way down the incline back to his vehicle. Pa’s pickup still hadn’t returned.

Lament shook himself, cocked his head. Shad went and plucked dying wildflowers from the thickets, putting half on Mama’s grave, the rest on Megan’s.

The hollow was getting on his nerves. He still had a few questions he wanted to ask. As soon as he had some answers, he’d drive up Gospel Trail, see if he could find whatever it was that had been thinking on him so decidedly.

Maybe Dudlow was right. Shad might have to kill some folks before this was all over, and take them along to oblivion.

THE BLOOD DREAMS RETURNED, SANGUINE and burning.

He used to have them a lot in the joint. He’d wake up and find himself standing naked at the bars, the entire cellblock awake but quiet, everybody staring into the dimness. Even the Aryans and the homeboys didn’t say a word. Jeffie O’Rourke would have his face buried in his pillow, shrunken back into the corner of his bunk and pretending to be asleep.

Shad never found out what he said or did while sleepwalking. No one would ever tell him, and they’d give him a wide berth for a while. The Muslims kept trying to convert him even though he was white, saying that Mohammed and Allah had plans for him.

So, it was happening again.

He blinked and realized he was in Mrs. Rhyerson’s backyard, looking up at the brightening sky. Maybe 5:00 A.M. from the purple hue of dawn, with the sound of the Freightliners barreling down the highway humming through the thickets.

He waited to see if he was out here for a reason. He was freezing, wearing only sweatpants and a T-shirt. The wind filled the trees overhead, and the ash and the oaks shrugged, leaves wafting against his knees. It kept him turning, facing one way, then another, the breeze shaking the brush. His hands were open at his sides, slightly raised, palms out. Knees bent, ready to run or jump. It was the most prepared you could be when you didn’t know from which direction they’d be coming.

If someone wanted him, he was here. He was still being looked over, contemplated, deliberated on. He could feel a certain anxiety in the night but couldn’t be sure if it was his own.

Shad had an urge to talk but checked himself. The more of your voice you gave away, the more power you consigned to your foe. Imagine the seventy-year-old woman clambering out of bed, stomping down the stairway, swinging through the kitchen and slamming open the screen door, holding an iron skillet.

Like he didn’t have enough on his mind.

His feet were numb and his skin crawled with gooseflesh. He backed up, step by step, wondering if it would compel the hills to make a move.

Perhaps it had. Shad wanted to go back inside but suddenly grew immensely tired. A peculiar weakness trailed through his limbs. He stooped and sat under a spruce, and when he felt strong enough, he stood and started back to the house. He was almost at the door before he realized he’d left his body behind.