Bentley Little: The Collection

Maybe he should kill her.

"Cal."

Chrissie's voice, still little more than a whisper, sounded clear and smooth through the smoke and din. He wanted to go back into The Sanctuary and talk to her but could not bring himself to do it.

"No," Chrissie whispered, and she said the word again. "Nooooo."

No? What did that mean?

But he knew what it meant. Chrissie had changed her mind. Maybe she had talked to Father, maybe she had talked to God, but she no longer wanted him to kill their mother, and she obviously did not want him to turn their mother in.

But what could he do?

"No," Chrissie whispered.

He ran out of the house and dropped onto the grass of the lawn outside, the cool wet grass which felt so fresh and new beneath his hot cheek.

Todd Mac Vicar from down the street rolled by on his Big Wheel. "What's the matter with you?" he asked. His voice was filled with disgust.

And Cal felt The Rage come over him. He knew it was happening, and he didn't want it to happen, but an unbridled hatred of Todd filled him from within, and he knew that nothing would abate this anger and hate save the boy's death. Thoughts of Todd's head, bloodied and smashed on the sidewalk, brought to his voice the coolness he needed. "Come here," he said. "I want to show you something in the garage."

He hoped his mother had not disposed of the shovel.

Cal stood in the center of The Sanctuary. He was crying, filled with a sadness and remorse he hadn't known he could experience. Behind him, Todd Mac Vicar's body burned in the pit, and he thought the smoke smelled clean, pure.

He looked down at his mother.

"You have no choice," she sobbed. "I must pay. I must die for your sins." She stretched a trembling hand against the crossbeam, palm outward. Her fingers twitched nerv­ously.

Cal pressed the point of the nail against the lined skin, drawing back the hammer.

The voices in his head offered encouragement:

"You have no choice." His father.

"You must." Chrissie.

He swung the hammer hard and flinched as his mother screamed, the nail impaling her palm to the wood. Warm red blood streamed downward.

This was crazy, he thought. This was wrong. This wasn't what he was supposed to do. But as he looked up, he thought he saw approval in Chrissie's running, clouded eyes, in his father's dry, empty sockets.

He swung the hammer again.

And again.

By the time he finished the last foot and propped the cross up next to Bocephus, he was already feeling better, pu­rified, cleansed, as if he was an innocent newborn, free from all guilt.

He sank gratefully to his knees.

"Our Mother," he said, "who art in heaven ..."

The Woods Be Dark

"The Woods Be Dark" was written in the mid-1980s for a creative writing class. At the time, I was under the spell of William Faulkner and turning out a slew of interconnected Southern Gothic stories all set in the same rural county. I lived in California, had never been anywhere near the South, didn't even know any­one from the South-but, arrogant and self-important jerk that I was, I didn't let that stop me.

Momma let the dishes set after supper instead of washing them and came out on the porch with us. She kicked Junior off of the rocker and took it for herself, just sitting there rocking and staring out at Old Man Crawford's trawler out there on the lake. It was one of them humid July nights and the dragonflies and the bloodsuckers was all hanging around the porchlight looking for a good arm to land on. Petey was up with a magazine, running around trying to kill all the bugs he could.

Momma was out on the porch with us because Robert hadn't come home before dark like he'd promised and she was waiting up for him. She pretended it wasn't no big deal. She sat there and talked to us, laughing and joking and telling stories about when she was our age, but I could tell from the expression on her face that she was thinking about Daddy.

I was standing off by the side of the railing, away from the door, by myself, trying to loosen my dress from where it'd caught on a nail. I was listening to Momma tell about the time the brakes went out on her at Cook's Trail and she had to swerve into the river to keep from smashing into a tree when I heard a low kind of rustling sound coming from the path on the side of the house. I scooted next to Momma on the rocker. "What is it, Beth?" she asked.

I didn't say nothing. Then I heard the sound again, only this time all of them heard it. Momma stood up. Her face was white. She walked to the railing where I'd been stand­ing and looked off toward the path. We stood around her, holding on to parts of her skirt.

Petey saw it first. "It's Robert!" he called. He pointed off to where the path met the woods.

Sure enough, Robert was coming out of the woods across the clearing carrying a whole lineful of fish. I heard Momma's breath start to relax when she saw it was Robert, but then she pulled it all in like someone'd hit her. Robert was kind of staggering across the clearing, weaving like he was drunk or something.

But we all knew he wasn't drunk.

"Get the shotgun," Momma said quietly.

I ran into the house and grabbed the gun out of Daddy's closet. I ran back out and gave it to Momma. She loaded it up and pointed it at Robert without no hesitation.

We could see him pretty clear now. He was halfway across the clearing and the lights from the house sort of lit up his face. He was still staggering around and walking like he was drunk and he was still carrying his line of fish. His face looked real white, like Daddy's face, and he didn't seem to even see us standing there on the porch. Petey was calling out to him-Petey was too young, he didn't really know what was going on-and Junior was holding him back.

Robert stopped about ten yards away from the house and waved. His wave was real slow, real strange. "Hey, Momma!" he said, and his voice was strange, too. "Look what I got."

Momma kept the gun trained on him. "Don't you come any closer," she said.

He shook his head. "Momma ..."

"If I'm still your momma you'll wait there for me 'til dawn. If you're still there come morning you'll be welcome back. But until then you just stop and wait right there."

He took a step forward. "Aw, Momma-"

The gunshot blew his head clean off. His face just ex­ploded in on itself and little pieces of blood and bone and eye went flying every which way. Petey started screaming and the rest of us watched while Robert fell onto the meadow grass. His hand was still holding onto the fish line. Momma reloaded the gun and aimed it at the center of his body just in case, but he didn't move. His body just lay there, the mash of skin that used to be his head bleeding into the grass.

We stayed on the porch all night. Petey, Junior, and Sissy fell asleep a little while later and I fell asleep about halfway through the night, but Momma stayed awake the whole time.

After the sun came up, we all went out in the clearing to look.

There was nothing there. His body was gone.

Momma spent that morning explaining things to Petey.

We waited on the porch again that night, eating supper f early and standing out there before it started to get dark. Sure enough, he started staggering up the path about the | same time he had last night. There was nothing we could do this time, so we just stood there huddled together and watched.

"Robert Paul's come home," he said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. "Robert Paul's come home again." We could see his grin even from this far away.

When he got to the spot where Momma'd shot him, he stopped.

And his head exploded.

He fell onto the ground just like before, and in the morn­ing he was gone.