Edward Lee - Ghouls

Two cigarettes later, most of 154 was behind him; he’d arrived at his destination unconsciously. Lenny Stokes’s flat-gray Chevelle was now parked in the drive like a dumb, bulky pet.

With dissolving awareness, he walked coolly up the steps to Stokes’s porch, a cigarette stuck between his lips. He gave the front door four solid raps, then lowered his arm.

He waited, as if bored. He could hear his watch tick.

Four more raps, and now his knuckles ached dully. Just as he prepared to knock again, the door opened.

Lenny glared from the open doorway, clad only in jeans. His eyes were fierce and bloodshot; lint flecked his hair. There was a crescent of scabbed blood on his forehead. Somehow, Lenny looked at home with it.

Kurt didn’t waste time. He said, “Hi, Lenny. How ya doin’?” and then slammed his fist squarely into the middle of Lenny’s face. Kurt reveled at the sound of the blow, like the snap of wet leather, and grinned as the transfer of impact sent Stokes reeling backward toward the center of the living room. At the end of the comic journey, he fell and landed on his back, where he lay splayed like a flabbergasted gingerbread man.

Kurt flicked his cigarette over the porch rail; he went casually back to his car. It had been better than he’d hoped, a near-perfect punch in the mouth.

He made a quick stop at the Jiffy for more cigarettes, and was again on his way. Maryland Route 3 appeared as a smooth, tedious stretch of highway, bisected by a treed, unusually wide median. Endless acres of farmland breezed by to the right and left, quartered fields aching to push forth corn, wheat, and tobacco.

The highway wound away, trafficless, silent. Kurt blew past periodic roadside taverns, produce stands, and general stores, all with such speed that he barely noticed them. Farther on, the median widened, elevating to a series of green, brushed hills.

Last night, he’d risked the extra few minutes on the road, and had taken Vicky to Parkview Hospital rather than South County General. The county hospital was a meat house, where cut-it-off-first-ask-questions-later was the medical order of the day. Parkview appeared sparkling and immaculate, just past the turnoff. Kurt parked illegally in a reserved staff space. Inside, he found the charge nurse and conned her into amending visitors’ hours. “Five minutes,” she told him, as if issuing a death threat. “She’s just coming off pain killers. And don’t give her any cigarettes, no matter how much she begs.”

Kurt smiled, thanked the nurse, and stepped into Vicky’s room.

She didn’t look nearly as bad as he’d feared, not when compared to last night. She was lost beneath blankets, her form diminished by a bed which threatened to devour her. Much of her forehead was padded by a thick, white bandage. At first he thought she might be asleep, which probably would’ve been all for the best, but next her head turned lazily in the pillow. She looked at him for a distended moment, then managed a small smile.

“Hi,” she said.

“I guess this is a dumb question, but how are you feeling?”

She laughed out loud. “My head feels three times its normal size, my wrist feels like it’s in a grape press, and my whole body hurts like hell, but other than that, I’ve never felt better.”

“Sorry I asked. What’s the damage report?”

“Minor concussion, minor blood loss, an interesting assortment of scrapes and bruises, and one fractured tubercle, whatever that is.” She raised a plaster-cast wrist.

“It could be worse, I guess. At least it’s not as serious as I thought it would be.”

She shook her head. “No, they don’t make Vickies like this one anymore.”

Kurt turned, hands in pockets, and faced the wall. “I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to joke about it. But last night, when I found you in the driveway, I thought…”

“That I was gonna die? Well you’re not the only one.”

Kurt’s voice was deliberately soft, as if loud talk might make her rattle. “All you have to do is give me the word, and—”

“Forget it, Kurt. I’m not going to press charges.”

“Shit, Vicky! Goddamn!” he exploded. It was an invitation to tirade. “I don’t fucking believe you. I suppose you enjoy getting the crap kicked out of you every other day. That guy almost killed you last night, and you act like you couldn’t care less.”

Her words came out enfeebled. “Kurt, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he recited. “Don’t worry about it.” He quickly crossed the room and aimed his finger at her. “How much longer are you going to let this go on? You won’t be able to press charges if you’re in a coffin, and it’s a miracle you’re not being measured for one right now. Last night you were lucky, and all the other times, too. But you might not be so lucky next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” she said. “I’m not going back to him, and he knows it. This was my going-away present; if you ask me, it was worth it. I’m free of him now, Kurt. Forever. Last night was the last time. So there’s no point in pressing charges. I’m just going to forget about him once and for all. It’s better this way, and a hell of a lot easier.”

Kurt went tinglingly rigid. He fell silent. Is she just saying that to shut me up? he thought. Or is it true? This was good news, so good he didn’t trust himself to believe it. When he finally got around to speaking again, all he could say was, “Are you kidding? You’re really not going back?”

“I may be a glutton for punishment and a diehard, but enough is enough. If I didn’t leave him after this, then I’d deserve another beating.”

Kurt smirked sourly. “That makes sense, so how come you didn’t leave him a year ago?”

“Various reasons. Reasons I’d rather not go in to. Just take my word for it, you don’t have to worry about finding me in your driveway anymore. I wouldn’t go back to that house for a mil— Oh, no, that reminds me. I do have to go back at least once. To get my money.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the past year I’ve been putting away little bits of my Anvil pay. Now I’ve got about five hundred dollars stashed, and I’m going to use it to get away.”

“Get away where?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve lived in Tylersville for twenty-six years. I figure I can spend the next twenty-six as far away from the place as possible.”

The words sank hooks into his brain. “You mean you’re going to leave town? ”

“You act like I’ve just said something crazy. I’ve had my fill of that dumb, backward, redneck turd of a city. Just as soon as I get the divorce papers rolling, I’m gone.”

Now Kurt stalled. He wanted her to leave Stokes, but not Tylersville altogether. Of course, he had no way of telling her that, and could imagine how he’d sound if he tried. In that moment of quiet, he admitted the facts. Tylersville was nothing. Only a jackass would want to live in Tylersville, and that idea made him think very hard about himself. There was no reason for Vicky to stay; in fantasy, though, he wished he could be the reason.

“So when’s the doctor letting you leave?”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.” She gave an achy shrug. “He says he’ll see.”

“In the meantime I guess you can file your entry blank for the Miss Battered Wife Pageant.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Kurt. It’s not easy when you’ve got a mouth full of cotton.”

This time Kurt’s smile was forced. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

“Sure, Kurt… And thanks for last night.”

“Don’t mention it. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll find me in your driveway. Then you can return the favor. See ya.”