Sharon Sala - Wild Hearts

The moment she walked out of the breezeway, she doubled up her fists and shook them at the sky, screaming her every word.

“I’m not afraid of ghosts! Do you hear me, goddamn it? I am not afraid of ghosts!”

With her head up and her shoulders back, she started walking toward the house with a long, steady stride while the rain poured down around her.

* * *

Betsy Jakes had just finished Trey’s cake when the storm finally hit. She dropped the spatula back into the icing bowl and began walking through the house, closing windows as she went.

“Trina! Shut the windows upstairs!” she yelled.

“I already did,” Trina said, as she came hurrying down the stairs, then followed her mother into the kitchen. “Gosh, that cake looks good. Is there any icing left?”

Betsy started to answer, and then grinned when she saw Trina already licking the spatula and scraping bits from the sides of the bowl.

Betsy covered the cake and then carried it to the extra refrigerator in the attached garage.

Lightning flashed, making the house lights flicker just as she came back inside. Trina had abandoned the spatula for her finger and was licking off icing as Betsy walked in. She smiled and shook her head. Some things never changed.

“Hey, honey, what do you want for supper...besides icing?” Betsy asked.

Trina shrugged. “Scrambled eggs and toast?”

Suddenly her smile felt weird, as if she had just laughed at a funeral, but she managed to hide the jolt. Eggs. For a few minutes she’d almost forgotten. “And maybe some sausage links?” she added.

“Sure, sounds good,” Trina said, and then carried the icing bowl to the sink, rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ll clean up the cake mess if you do supper, okay?”

“Deal,” Betsy said, and both women were soon involved in preparations for their evening meal.

* * *

Trey picked up an order of sliced brisket and French fries from Jonny’s Ribs to take back to his place. The smell of the food was so good he grabbed a couple of fries from the sack and ate them as he drove.

The rain hit just as he entered his apartment. If he was really lucky, he wouldn’t be called out tonight, but just in case, he’d learned not to waste time when it came to hot food. He washed up, then transferred the food to a plate and began to eat. A cold beer would have been good, but he was on call, so no dice.

He thought about Dallas, wondering how she was doing. One thing about her hadn’t changed. She was still as headstrong as ever. It probably served her well as an investigative reporter. Him, not so much.

He turned on the television as he ate, waiting for the weather report to see if this storm front was going to move through or hang around. Still fidgeting, he glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. He would give Dallas two more hours and then he was calling.

* * *

Freshly showered and in clean, dry clothes, Dallas went to the kitchen for the coffee she’d made. The thought of food made her sick, but she felt light-headed, almost weak. She hadn’t had anything but junk or fast food since noon the day before and knew she couldn’t do what she needed to do if she were sick. Finally she settled for an omelet, an old standby for supper, and had it ready in minutes. She added buttered toast to the plate and carried it and her coffee into the living room to eat.

It was almost dark, so she went around the room drawing shades and pulling curtains until she felt safe, then sat down, turned on the television and ate.

Even though it was virtually tasteless, she felt better when the food was in her stomach. Settling in to finish her coffee, she pulled her feet up beneath her, and as she did, her gaze went straight to the recliner where her dad would have been sitting. A wave of loss washed through her so fast it left her shaking. She blinked away tears and turned up the volume. Trey would be calling, and she didn’t want him to hear the tears in her voice.

* * *

Trina’s boyfriend, Lee, had come by to take her to a movie, leaving Betsy with the house to herself. The thought of a long soak in the tub seemed like a good idea, and she headed for her room, ready to put this day to bed.

The tub was nearly full as she poured bath salts into the water and turned off the faucet. She stepped out of her robe and into the tub, easing down into the steamy heat. Water lapped against her breasts and up the back of her neck as she tucked the bath pillow beneath her neck and closed her eyes.

The buoyancy and heat were so soothing that she soon lost track of time. The sound of rainfall on the roof made her feel sleepy. The heat always soothed the ache in her lower back, a remnant from the wreck that had nearly killed her in her teens. The moment she thought of the wreck, she saw Dick Phillips hanging from the rafter. Before she could look away, his face morphed into someone else, someone covered in blood. She sat up with a gasp, splashing water onto the bathroom floor.

“What the hell?” she muttered, chalking it up to the horrendous day.

She wondered if Dallas was back in town yet. She should call, but since she’d also discovered the body, it made things awkward. She reached down and pulled the plug to let the tub drain.

* * *

As school superintendent, one of Will Porter’s duties, and there were many, was to attend the monthly school board meetings, and tonight was no exception.

Tonight the school board members, the school principals, the high school secretary and a few interested parents were present as they went through the agenda.

Porter went through the motions, saying all the right things in the right places, but tonight his mind was not on the business at hand. He did what he had to do for his job and his goals in life, but he had bigger problems at home that he didn’t know how to handle.

His wife, Rita, was already three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk off her ass when he got home after the meeting, which was really nothing new. But this time she’d used the excuse of grieving for their old classmate Dick Phillips as the reason for her condition, although she no longer needed an excuse to imbibe. All pretense of hiding her addiction was in the past.

Years and added weight had changed his appearance greatly. He looked more like a used-up prizefighter than a school superintendent, but what he wanted didn’t require good looks. He had aspirations of greater grandeur than being superintendent of minuscule Mystic and could have cared less if Dick Phillips was dead. Rita had spent a good portion of their married life referring to Dick as the one who got away. It made no sense to Will. Dick had never left the farm, while he had gone on to graduate school and had a successful professional career. Then one night, in a drunken stupor, she’d taunted him, claiming Dick’s cock was bigger and he was better at sex.

That night he’d done an unforgivable thing. That night he’d physically raped his wife. The fortunate part was that she’d been too drunk to remember it. The downside was remembering how much he’d liked it. He’d never thought of himself as a violent man, but he’d learned the hard way that there were times when no other avenue would suffice.

And right now Will Porter’s dream of running for State Superintendent of Education was imminent, and the only thing holding him back was the drunk in his bed. Now Rita could whine all she wanted about how she’d let Dick Phillips get away, because he was dead, and Will wasn’t a damn bit sorry.

* * *

Dallas was sitting in the dark, the television on mute, as she listened to the storm rage on. It fit how she felt, all torn and shattered inside. The thunderstorm hit its zenith just before nine o’clock, rattling windows and pelting the roof with raindrops that sounded more like bullets. Dallas had grown up in this house. She knew every creak and pop the structure could make, but when it thundered, followed by a crack of lightning so close that it lit up the room where she was sitting, she screamed and jumped off the sofa.