Bryan Smith: Soultaker

She looked exactly like what she was-an aging white-trash slut.

“Mom?”

Another round of sobbing followed the sound of his voice.

“Is Trey here?”

“My bay-beeee!”

Jake scowled. “Jesus. I’m wasting my time here. I came back to Rockville because I wanted to help Trey, not to watch you put on a fucking show.”

Jolene stopped crying. She glared at him again. “You and I ain’t ever gonna get along. I get that, son. Hell, I know what you think of me. You think I’m a total idiot?” She sneered. “So let’s forget about the shit between us for now. Trey’s all that matters. All I ask is you listen to what I have to say.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a few moments. His mind showed him a series of images burned indelibly into his memory, moments of childhood terror he wished he could forget, though now it was important to recall them, to strengthen his resolve and keep his mental defenses in place. These were memories of pain inflicted by the adults in his life. First by his biological father, a bitter man who was almost a prototype of a typical Zone man. He still bore the scars left by cigarettes extinguished on his flesh by Lou McAllister. Lou was shot to death when Jake was just eight. He hadn’t wasted a second mourning the son of a bitch. But the abuse did not end then. Jolene McAllister never put cigarettes out on her boys, but she was no less vicious than her deceased husband. Her favorite disciplinary tool had been a belt with a huge Confederate flag buckle. Then the worst possible thing happened. Jolene remarried. And Lou’s successor was even more of a sadistic bastard. The beatings Jake and Mike endured at the hands of that man had been beyond brutal.

Jolene’s thinly veiled attempt to characterize their troubled past as little more than the normal tensions existing between parents and rebellious children was ludicrous. She could never admit her faults, never recognize her past behavior as abusive. So he couldn’t confront her, couldn’t make her acknowledge the damage she’d wrought. There was no closure to be had here. Not now. Not ever.

“All right, Mom. Let’s forget about the…shit…between us. Tell me about Trey.”

“Okay, but let’s move this heartwarming reunion to the kitchen.” She turned away from him and padded down the short hallway, then stepped through an archway into the kitchen. “I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a drink.”

Jake followed her into the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes. An odor of shit emanated from an overflowing litter box. The ancient linoleum was stained and curling up in places. Another odor permeated the air in here, a ghost smell just detectable beneath the stench of cat shit. A puke smell. On the floor near the refrigerator was a pile of jagged glass shards, the remains of a shattered jar.

Jake took a seat at the wobbly kitchen table. Jolene pulled open the refrigerator door, popped two cans of Old Milwaukee off a plastic binder, and set one down in front of her son. She plopped down in the seat opposite him, popped the can’s tab, and knocked back a long slug of cheap beer. Jake hated Old Milwaukee, but he needed a beer. More than ever, he needed a goddamn beer. He opened the can and took a sip.

He shuddered and put the can down. “So what’s going on?”

Jolene pushed her chair back and set her feet up on the edge of the table. She had some kind of vine tattoo around her left ankle. And a gold-plated anklet. And a toe ring. Jake tried to conceal his distaste. But Jesus fucking Christ. This woman was in her fifties. Did she know how ridiculous she looked?

“Trey’s gotten mixed up with some punk-ass bitch.”

Jake thought, What are you, Snoop Doggy Mom now?

He kept his voice noncommittal. “Oh yeah?”

Jolene lit a Doral and blew smoke at the ceiling. “This weird slut named Myra. When I say punk, I mean punk rock. You know, alternative? Hair and clothes all funny-lookin’. Piercings all over.”

Jake laughed. “So what’s the problem? Because I just don’t see what the big deal is. So Trey’s hanging with a punk chick. Real shocking, Mom. For 1978, maybe.”

Jolene’s feet came off the table and she leaned toward Jake, some of the previous heat returning to her voice. “Fuck you, Jake. I ain’t so simpleminded as that. There’s more to it than that.”

“Okay. So make me understand why this girl’s trouble.”

“Trey’s not like you or Mikey, Jake. He’s a good boy.”

Jake sighed.

Jolene pressed on. “He’s a good student. Honors and shit. He plays sports. He’s popular. He’s everything you wouldn’t expect a kid from the Zone to be. At least he was until that cunt came along. Now it’s all gone down the tubes. He dumped his beautiful girlfriend and his grades are in the toilet. I’m not even sure he’s gonna graduate.” Tears welled in her eyes again. “My baby’s in trouble, Jake. He could still have a bright future if he’d just be made to see how this bitch is ruining everything.” She reached across the table and clasped hands with her oldest son. “Can’t you help me?”

Jake doubted this Myra chick was as horrible as Jolene made her out to be. Still, if her account of Trey’s abrupt and dramatic change of behavior was even partially accurate, then there was some legitimate cause for concern. A selfish, private corner of his psyche boiled with anger, though. When he and Mikey were skipping school and getting in scrapes with the law, she’d never been anywhere near this concerned. Hell, she hadn’t given a shit.

“I’ll try to help,” he said at last. “When’s the best time to see him?”

Jolene smiled. “I told him you’d be by to see him when he gets home from school today.” She sniffled. “I just knew you’d help. He should be here about three thirty.”

Jake stood up. “I’ll be here.”

“He’ll want you to tell him all about being a famous writer. He just loved your books.”

Jake’s expression remained impassive. “Yeah. Right.”

Jake had two published novels to his credit, but their sales figures were far south of “famous writer” territory.

Jolene’s expression softened. She almost seemed to project real warmth at him. “You’re a good role model, son. I always knew you’d turn your life around someday.”

Jake felt a headache coming on.

“Three thirty,” he said.

He turned and walked out of his nightmare house.

The girl looked good enough to eat. The way she sat there all curled up in the chair on the other side of his desk was just about too sexy to take, her legs tucked beneath her, her body turned sideways, one arm draped languorously over the back of the chair. He wanted to chew on her pooched-out lower lip. Wanted to kiss her eyelids. Smudges of dark eye shadow created a false impression of fresh bruises. The eye shadow and a delicate bone structure made her eyes look big and white like fat flakes of falling snow.

Principal Raymond Slater had lusted after hundreds of the young girls who’d passed through Rockville High’s not-so-hallowed halls over the years, but he’d never attempted to seduce any of them. He enjoyed his job and his position in the community, and he was smart enough to shy away from forbidden fruit. Still, some temptations were more…tempting…than others.

He made himself frown. “Surely…” He cleared his throat. “Surely you do not mean to propose an exchange of sexual favors for leniency…do you?”

Myra chuckled. “Do I?” Her gaze lingered on Slater a moment. Her tongue darted out and she licked her lower lip. Mischief twinkled in her eyes. She stroked an arm of the chair, gripping it the way Penelope often gripped his cock, with a delicious mixture of delicacy and firmness. “That’s not really what I said, Principal Slater.”