Alex Bledsoe - Wisp of a Thing

Ten minutes earlier, as Rob followed Berklee’s car in his own, he made sure his iPhone noted the route. He could then retrace it to the service station, and from there to Needsville, if he needed to get back to town in a hurry. It felt good to be a bit less lost.

When the Pair-A-Dice finally came into view, Rob felt a sudden rush of panic. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, the parking lot was full, just as it had been that first night. Apparently, Rockhouse could make his half of the Tufa drop everything at a moment’s notice.

Doyle and Berklee parked at the edge of the lot, where they wouldn’t get blocked in, and Rob followed suit. Doyle opened the trunk, pulled out a small eighteen-inch crowbar, and slipped it into one of the big leg pockets of the coveralls. Then he glanced back at Rob. “Got a couple of drop-forge socket wrenches here. They make quite a knot if you hit somebody hard enough.” He produced a large Case knife from his pocket. “And I got this.”

“No thanks,” Rob said. “I’m really not trying to pick a fight.”

“They might not see it that way,” Doyle pointed out. But he closed the trunk without further comment.

They walked across the parking lot together, just as they’d done on his first night in town, only now a cloud of leaves formed a violent miniature tornado right in front of them. And once again, they heard music and laughter as they neared the building. Berklee nervously clutched Doyle’s hand.

The Widow’s Tree was visible in the distance, its great form swaying in the wind. Only a small clutch of leaves remained at the very top; the rest of its limbs were bare. Rob remembered the names carved in the trunk, and the sad realization that Curnen, too, had lost the person she loved most.

Just as they reached the entrance, a voice said, “’Scuse me, y’all.”

A big, potbellied man in overalls and a Confederate cap came around the building’s corner. He carried a ten-pound mallet hammer easily in his right hand, like a trailer park Thor. “This is a private ay-fair. I’m betting you folks ain’t on the guest list.”

The man outweighed Rob probably by a hundred pounds, and had the mean, thick-browed look of so many rural bullies. Although the hair underneath the cap was Tufa black, his chin stubble was mostly white, except at the corners of his mouth, where it was stained dark yellow from tobacco juice. Matching streaks ran down the curve of his belly, marking times he hadn’t spit far or hard enough.

“I just need to see the girl who’s with Stoney Hicks,” Rob said. “I know they’re inside. It won’t take five minutes if nobody gets too twitchy.”

The big man smacked the mallet into his open hand. The sound was like meat hitting concrete. “You’re not going in there, sonny-boy. You best just turn around the way you came before me and Mr. Whackie here get all over you.”

Rob’s temper began to sizzle. “I don’t want any trouble, daddy-man, but I guarantee you I’m not walking away from it, either. All I want to do is talk to somebody, and I intend to do it. I suggest, if you don’t want to get to know Mr. Whackie in a whole new way, you step aside.”

“Whoa, now,” Doyle said as he moved up beside Rob. His voice was low and even. “I don’t see any need for everyone to get all huffy over this. Simple thing is, Mr. Gahan, if you pick a fight with Rob here, you’re picking one with me, too. I know you used to beat up my daddy in school, you tell me every chance you get, but that was a long time ago. As you can see, my friend here ain’t afraid of a scrap, and I don’t think you’re quite up to a double-header, especially with your bad hip.”

Mr. Gahan’s little pig eyes narrowed, and he stayed silent for a long moment. “Y’all ain’t got no business here,” he finally muttered.

“True enough,” Doyle agreed. “But sometimes you got to go where you ain’t got no business.”

Gahan scowled, spit at the ground, then turned and lumbered back around the corner of the building. Doyle let out a deep breath, and took Berklee’s hand. “Dang,” he sighed. “That aged me.”

“Me, too,” Rob said. “Thanks.”

“Wait,” Berklee said, and turned to Doyle. Her expression was suddenly fearful and desperate. “I’m not sure what’ll happen in there, but I want you to know, I really do love you.”

“I know,” Doyle said sadly. “I love you, too.”

Rob grabbed the door handle. “Here we go,” he said, and pulled it open.

Much like that first time days ago, the place was crowded and alive with conversation. The energy, though, felt completely different. It was simultaneously edgy, annoying, and compelling, the kind of buzz that helped fights break out at the slightest provocation and hinted that people might return home minus body parts. He heard screaming, farting, moaning, and even what sounded like animal sounds that could only have come from the men and women crammed into the room.

Doyle leaned close. “These ain’t good people,” he said warningly into Rob’s ear.

“Oh, I know.” Rob recalled the scene at the cave, the way the music had burrowed inside him and latched on to the guilt and pain he carried. Would the same thing happen again? His conversation with Bronwyn had gone a long way toward easing it, but was the effect permanent? He’d find out soon enough, he supposed.

Then Doyle pointed across the room, where Stoney’s poster boy mane towered over the crowd. Rob couldn’t see if Stella accompanied him.

“Do you see a girl with him?” Rob yelled to Doyle. “Red hair, about thirty, real tired-looking?”

Doyle couldn’t tell, and turned to ask Berklee. “Hon, do you see—?”

She stood absolutely still, staring across the room at Stoney with a look so pained and needy that it would’ve been pitiful under different circumstances. Without looking at Doyle, she gasped, “I’m sorry,” and began pushing her way through the crowd toward Stoney.

Doyle stood stunned, then turned to Rob. “I got to go get her,” he said, the pain in his voice audible even over the noise. He didn’t wait for Rob to respond.

Rob worked his way around the edge of the room. He spotted one young man with an odd, bright red face, and realized it was the ambusher he’d spray-painted. He was sure he’d be recognized, but nobody paid any attention to him.

Finally he reached the bandstand. The same Peavey amps flanked it, and a small drum set was shoved as far into the corner as it would go. A banjo lay in its open case. A single microphone stood at the center.

He looked around again, making sure no one had spotted him. He saw no sign of Rockhouse. He took a deep breath, then stepped up on the riser, experiencing a whole new form of stage fright.

With the added height, he easily saw Stoney across the room. Berklee stood pleading in front of him, while Doyle tried to pull her away. Stoney’s big arm draped casually over Stella Kizer, who regarded Berklee with both sympathy and weary jealousy. Stoney’s expression was blank, maybe slightly amused, and certainly not the least bit concerned with the pain he was causing.

Rob tapped the microphone. The speakers thudded in response. “Uh, excuse me,” he said, putting a drawl in his voice, “would Stella Kizer please come on up to the bandstand?”

Stella turned toward him. A few others looked at him oddly, but most ignored him. “Stella Kizer, to the bandstand, please,” he repeated.

She was fifteen feet away, watching him with hurt, watery eyes, but would not detach from Stoney Hicks. The big man ignored Rob, instead watching Doyle drag his wife away through the crowd. Berklee was crying, one hand stretched imploringly toward Stoney, who couldn’t have cared less.

Rob met Stella’s eyes. Please, he mouthed to her. But she looked away, helpless in the grip of whatever power had its hooks into her.