Southern Gothic, Chapter 1 (cont'd)

ii

Henrietta took a side street back to Highway 80, turning right on the four-lane blacktop. She steered her massive Chevrolet down this public face of Deufreres, Alabama -- a couple of small motels with weedy swimming pools, a restaurant or three. The hollowed-out husk of a Wal-Mart gathered dust beside the town's only grocery store.

And then the fairgrounds to the right, choked with tall grass. A rusted, abandoned Tilt-A-Whirl gave home to all manner of vermin. She still remembered spinning around that very machine with Edmund, back home from the war, laughing and restless to get her alone. She had savored his heat then, filling her with the joy that was every woman's right. All gone now. All over.

At the intersection of 80 and Robertson she stopped and waited for green. In the rear-view mirror, she could just make out the bus pulling out onto the main road, heading away. No doubt the bus company could save money by skipping Deufreres -- who would want to come here? Who was left that would leave?

But Horace Arnett had his vanities. It pleased him to keep the buses running, and so they did. Free chicken dinners for the drivers and passengers, and probably a little more passed hands between him and the bus company. His problem.

Damn his problems.

The signal let her turn left, off the public face and away from the heart of the town. She pushed the accelerator down, because Robertson Road had miles to go through Alabama woods before reaching the incorporated speed trap named Robertson. She, however, had only two miles along this road, and home was close by. The road was long and straight. A trailer here or a home there were blurs in her window, and soon enough Bumiller Way approached. She slowed and took the left, a red dirt road that went all the way to 43. But her house was just here, just to the right.

She pulled into the driveway and stopped the car behind the house, under a roof Munnie had built for it. The Chevrolet started ticking as it cooled. Slowly she gathered her things and got out. She touched the gnarled, wooden beast that guarded her back door, and went inside.

She dropped off her burdens at the kitchen table. One umbrella, one purse, two boxed chicken dinners. Nothing wrong with Eula's chicken, not at all, and Henrietta would know it if there was. But before dinner, there was a wayward girl to call.

She went through the living room, not bothering to glance out the beautiful picture window Munnie had put in for her to see the front yard. Down the hall, into their bedroom -- her bedroom -- and open the address book on the dresser. Into the front bedroom, where Lucybelle squawked her hello. "Tu, tu, tu," said Henrietta, and Lucybelle tu-tu-tued back in her voice. She sat down at the phone, and the voice of her dead husband came from the parrot, answering the phone in his gruff way.

"Munnie Bumiller. Who's this?"

Lucybelle could have continued with a muttering that resembled whatever Munnie might have said next, but Henrietta snapped violently. The parrot stopped in mid-call, rocked on her perch, and shook out its feathers. She rrrocked a call of supplication to the old woman, who was busy dragging numbers out of her black phone. It wasn't a pattern she recognized, but she was getting old herself. Too many numbers these days, although the ends seemed the same sometimes. Click-click-click-click-click.

The old woman and the old bird sat in silence. Then:

"Hello, Miriam?"

"Could you put her on the phone? MIRIAM SNOW."

Silence. Lucybelle tugged at her itchy talons.

"Where are you?"

"I know you are there. Why are you not here? I need you here. The deity knows I ask for little enough from you. What? Well, damn those tests. Not even a word from you. A test before family?"

"I called this very number and left you word. I wired you the money for the ticket."

Lucybelle watched her with dismay as she sagged into her chair. Miriam's voice muttered and twittered over the phone.

"I don't know if I can hold out."

"I dare not. I dare not. I need you here."

And then Lucybelle screeched out as Henrietta twisted the phone against her chest. Her bosom heaved. She came to herself and lifted the receiver.

"You're right, you're right, of course. Too much money spent now to throw it away. You're right, my girl."

"No, it will have to wait, won't it? You get here when you can."

"No, I will manage. I have so far."

"You're kind. Yes, when you get here."

"All right. It is as it is. Can't do nothing more."

"All right."

Henrietta set down the receiver. Her eyes looked over the small room. Munnie's mother had died here, and it had become her sewing room. Munnie had fallen right there, next to the shelf full of cloth and scraps. Some of the baskets had been pulled down, scattered around.

But he'd made it to his feet and gotten to the bedroom to breathe his last on their wedding bed. A man shall leave his mother and cleave unto his wife. That was Munnie, just enough of a Christian at the end to mock her.

He deserved better in death that what he was getting. Miriam or no, this foolishness had to end tonight. "Tonight," she said to Lucybelle, who let loose a low growl and anxiously bobbed her head.

Southern Gothic, Chapter 1

i

The old woman stood in the sticky Alabama heat, encased in black from head to toe. Her dress was long, her gloves went up to her pale elbows, and her purse was clutched under her arm as if it meant to escape. From under the fringe of her black umbrella, her face could be seen trickling rivulets of sweat behind a gauzy veil. She stared down the road, mouth tightly clamped in the effort to ward off the questioning eyes, the snickers. The hate of those assembled radiated around her as she lifted her chin and looked again down the road, willing the bus to appear.

And at last it came, as it had to. Just as it appeared out on the main, brakes hissing to prepare for the turn, a neon sign sprung to life in a window just behind the old woman: HOT FRIED CHICKEN NOW. The eyes lost interest in her, and feet shuffled into the small bus stop. The door swung back and forth. The bus now rumbled down the small side street toward the stop. The woman snapped her umbrella shut and stepped forward, irritated at herself for the relief she felt.

She waited for the bus to swing around in the small parking lot, aimed back at the main highway. The air brakes hissed a final time, and the driver bolted out of the doors to head into the small convenience store. The old woman scanned the passengers again and again through the window. They were sparse and sat bleary-eyed in their seats.

She must have come. Miriam must have come.

The woman stalked up to the open bus doors. In she went, climbing the large steps one at a time until she could stare down the length of the smelly vehicle. Heads dotted the seats here and there, but Miriam's was not among them. She called out Miriam's name once, twice. Now the heads glanced at her in a most uncharitable way. Her mouth snapped shut into a tight line and she looked around, spotting the horn. She pressed her purse hand against it, and the horn blared out into the heat, causing the heads to cry out. She yelled right back.

"Miriam! Miriam! Are you on this bus or not?"

"Ma'am, can I help you at all?"

The woman spun around. The driver stood there at the door, arms full of white, cardboard boxes. And striding up to the bus behind him was the sheriff, that long, lanky bastard.

"I'm looking for my niece, Miriam. She should be on this bus."

The driver sought a better grasp on his box lunches. "Ma'am, if you could come down right quick, I'll help you find her."

But the sheriff was there. "Mrs. Bumiller."

"You shut your chicken-hole right this minute, Lonnie. I'm here for my niece, Miriam. She should be on this bus. Miriam!"

From the back of the bus, a angry male voice replied: "She's not here, lady! Jesus Christ."

The driver said, "I'm afraid he's right, ma'am. There's no Miriam Bumiller on the manifest..."

"Her maiden name is Snow!"

"Or Snow, either. No Miriam at all, I'm dead sure."

Henrietta stared at the bumblefool, trying not to show her heart sinking the way it was. But she was old, and her strength was fading, and she saw her vanity in the practiced way an air of homespun tolerance rose into the sheriff's face. He spoke.

"Now, Mrs. Bumiller, let's let this man feed his passengers before the cole slaw can cool that chicken off, what do you say?"

The image of patience he was, but his words were just loud enough to carry down the bus aisle. She stared at the greedy heads, who stared back at the senile old crow standing between them and a free chicken dinner. The scent of the hot, greasy chicken was everywhere, intoxicating and savage. She found that she'd gripped both hands around her umbrella. She released her right hand, found the railing, and began to ease herself down the steep stairs.

The sheriff reached forward to help, and without a second of thought, Henrietta rapped him across the bridge of his nose with the umbrella's handle. Not enough to break anything, but he staggered back as his sinuses started speaking to him. The heads on the bus gasped as one, and the driver's jaw fell open. Lonnie stood there, panting and clearing his throat.

But Henrietta continued to make her way down, while muttering, "Lay a hand on me, Lonnie Braswell, and I'll put a spell on you you won't forget." She placed both feet on the dirty concrete and stared up at him. Oh, he was mad.

But Sheriff Braswell wasn't always stupid. Henrietta sniffed at him and walked away toward her car, using her umbrella as a cane.

Some of those assembled had come back out to watch the show. She glanced their way, and suddenly marrow was cracking loose of chicken bones rather noisily. Behind her, Braswell was speaking to the bus, "Now Mrs. Bumiller was recently bereaved." That almost caused her to spin around again, but she could not afford another lashing out right now. She ground the tip of the umbrella into the dust for a few steps, she clenched her teeth, anything to keep from thinking what could only be realized in the safety of her home.

Miriam had not come in her hour of need.