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.