Southern Gothic, Chapter 1 (cont'd)

iii

Percy Powe forgot what it was exactly he'd done to Horace Arnett to land this smelly slew of a job, but it had to have been something awful.

And Widow Bumiller banging a hole in his front door wasn't close to the worst of it. It was a goddamn walk in the park compared to cleaning up some of Arnett's messes. Which, come to think of it, was what this was, if you could think at all in this racket. The widow's approach had set Pookie off. Between the two old, cranky bitches, it was far too much racket for a Friday afternoon.

And yet still he lay sprawled on his small couch, dog barking, widow banging, and he tried to drown it out, all of it, even what he knew they would find. He could see her, strands of Irish red still burning through her grey hair, fat and dumpy, mouth set in a permanent cast of anger and judgment. She began calling him by his full name, something she'd learned teaching the whole town science and math in the third grade, and banging at his small trailer door with what sounded like a crowbar. Pookie woofed and howled out her, and then suddenly stopped. The widow Bumiller brandishing a tire iron was something that would even test Horace, much less a stringy mutt with burrs between her toes.

"Percevel Gartrell Powe." Again the pounding started. Damn her, he grimaced, even though this was his own damn fault. He'd seen the damage through the gates that morning and not even gone inside.

"What is it?"

"So you aren't too drunk to respond. Good. It's only 4:00."

"Still Friday."

"I don't rightly care if it's Wine Cask Tuesday or Paint Thinner Thursday, Percy. Let me in to see Munnie."

"Cemetery's closed, Mrs. Bumiller."

"The hell it is, Percevel Powe. Two full hours until the posted hours expire." The pounding began again, rattling the windows. A picture fell off the wall, the only one he had of his poor mother. "Get off your couch of drunkenness and unlock that gate."

"All right! All right -- I mean, I'll be right there, Mrs. Bumiller." He sat up, wondering what he could say to head this off. He picked up the keys from the coffee table and then got it. "Uh, Mrs. Bumiller, I cain't find the keys."

And then things started happening quickly. She was in the door before he got the sentence out. He only had time to gawp at the intrusion before she started in on him, "There they are in your damn hands, Percy." He had a second to look dumbly at his hand before the keys disappeared, snatched away by Mrs. Bumiller, who oddly enough was only holding her umbrella after all. She took a brief second to sneer at the cleanliness of Percy's domicile, which may have sent an English cleaning woman screeching into the night. And then she was gone, out the door, across the dirt road and walking alongside Percevel Road to the gates of the old cemetery.

"Mrs. Bumiller, I had just found them..." Percy babbled out whatever came to mind as he chased after her. Pookie was nowhere to be seen, which meant she was cowering in her accustomed spot. He wasn't feeling well, could he please have the keys back, it's getting late. There was no time to call Horace, and Percy truly had no desire to at that point. Mrs. Bumiller unlocked the gate with the first key she came to, tossed the ring into the dirt, threw open the gate, and headed in. Percy thought he could go no lower: the old bitch had watched him every time he'd let her in over the past two weeks. God damn, she might have been planning this ever since she found her old damn husband sprawled across their bed.

She probably killed him herself to do all this.

He picked up the keys, knowing he should go back and call Horace now, right now, damn Mrs. Bumiller, but she was halfway to her husband's grave now, the first dug in this cemetery for almost 25 years. And she was already slowing, because she could see from there what had been done to the grave.

"Percy," she said, in a tone so hushed, it surprised him. "Percy, come here now."

He followed her down the small road. The old cemetery was a long rectangle, until you got back to the truly old part, where the Arnett mausoleum kept watch over the graves dug in the first days of Deufreres. This section was right by the river, right where the Austerlitz Canal moved away from the Tombigbee and into the heart of the town. The cemetery stretched out beside it, with two roads leading from the gate along its length and towards the back, where they converged into a circle enclosing the mausoleum. Railroad tracks used to be the only demarcation of territory here, between old and older than that, but that was before Horace built the walls around this place. The railroad was long gone by then.

He followed her down the riverside road of the cemetery. Because her pace had slowed, it was only a moment that she had stood at the foot of Edmund Bumiller's grave before he stopped beside her, keys loosely dangling from his hand.

The funeral flowers had been flung here and there in the assault. Dirt was scattered here and there in a frenzy, handfuls of sod wadded and cast aside as whatever it was had dug -- there was no other word for it -- dug down into the earth, down to the very grave liner, visible in white patches here and there at the bottom of the pit. The stench of urine and worse drifted up into the afternoon air, stinking of frustration.

He looked over at the old woman. She was almost panting with the effort to maintain her composure. What could he say? There was nothing he could say. They stood there in the afternoon light, staring down at the savaging of Edmund Bumiller's grave, until finally Henrietta spoke:

"It is time to end all of this, Percy."

And Percy replied, "I try to keep that damn dog out of here, but she just --"

"A dog? A dog did this?" Henrietta had wheeled around to face him, eyes of liquid fire, and she jabbed an umbrella point at the ragged edges of the pit. "Show me the dog that has paws the width of a human hand, Percevel Powe."

Percy looked down at his feet but could not switch off his mouth. He stammered, "Well, them teenagers'll jump the fence, too, drinking and carrying on..."

And then he shrieked, because Henrietta had struck him across the face with her umbrella. He stepped back from her, but she pursued him, fetching him another blow, and yet another. And as he fell, crawling back and finally curling into a fetal position, she continued to beat him, yelling, "Teenagers? TEENAGERS? What teenagers, Percy? Show me a damn teenager in this damned city! Do they drive over from Livingston? HANH? TEENAGERS??"

Finally she'd had enough. She stood lost in thought. The weeping sack of bones before her groaned and slowly unfolded itself back into the semblance of a man. Percy sat up, wiping his nose with his sleeve, and hushed himself. He didn't look at her. She'd speak soon enough.

And when she did, she was as calm as she had ever been in her life. "Percy, you are going to go right now and get your truck. It's already full of dirt, so bring it here and fill in this grave."

"Yes, ma'am," said Percy, jumping to his feet as fast as he could, happy to have something to do.

She continued, "You're going to pack it nice and tight, and then, Percevel Powe, you are going to sit watch tonight and make sure these," -- and here she sneered -- "teenagers don't come back here."

He looked at her then, and she stared back. "Yeah," he said, nodding his head quickly. "I mean, yes, ma'am, Mrs. Bumiller."

Anger flashed through her eyes again, and she barked out, "Well, let's get to it!" and Percy was off, down the dirt road toward the gate, out and back into his small trailer, looking for his truck keys.

And as he ran, he thought about the oncoming night and Horace's wrath and more than just this. He did mean well by the widow, but truth be told, it was Henrietta that insisted on burying Munnie in there, anyway. And now all of this.

And he thought as he jammed the keys into his truck parked behind his trailer, no teenagers? What the hell was she on about? Deufreres had kids left, didn't it? True, the elementary school and the high school had closed, but the kids were being bussed to Linden for the county schools. Percy tried to think about when he'd last seen a kid running around as he pulled out onto his namesake's road. Well, he didn't get out much and didn't go many places when he did. The convenience store had gas and eats and beer. He tended to the new cemetery out on 43 southbound, but Horace had the supplies delivered.

As he turned into the old cemetery, he thought about when the manager of the McDonald's had finally moved away with his family. He'd had kids. Percy had seen them standing around the locked building before they left. That was it. That was, what? 10 years ago?

He stopped the truck right in the gate at that. But before he could do the math, he saw something a bit more urgent.

Mrs. Bumiller was gone.

He stomped on the gas, rocketing up to Munnie's grave, half-hoping to find her hiding in there. He could bury her quick and be done with the whole business. But, no, of course she wasn't, and he hardly slowed as he headed on back to the older part of the cemetery. There he had to slow down, because the road was much rougher. But she was still nowhere to be seen. The mausoleum itself was secure -- she couldn't have got in there. Around he went, peeking between crooked stones spotty with algae. She wasn't here.

So he pulled back up to the front. There was a small shed right at the front of the cemetery, holding some supplies and tools. He'd never gotten around to moving the digger back to the new cemetery after digging Munnie's grave. But as he did, he realized that he'd not seen Mrs. Bumiller's car when he pulled into the cemetery just now. So instead of checking the shed and the earthmover, he pulled out of the gate slightly. Her car wasn't there. He looked up the hill to the left, past the vacant houses that dotted the other side of the road. He looked to the right, across the bridge spanning Austerlitz and curving over a steeper hill. She was gone. She'd left him to his work.

So he got to it. He backed the truck up, got out, and locked the gate. He backed the truck up to Munnie's grave, got out, and grabbed a shovel from the back. He jumped down into the hole and used the shovel to scoop up the filth in the grave and toss it aside, grimacing as he did.

And then an idea seized him, driving away some of his pain with its brilliance. He almost laughed right there, thinking of how Horace Arnett would praise him.

He started in on the grave, methodically uncovering the door of the grave liner. He took his keys, unlocking the liner, and then pulled open the door. The stench of the grave trickled up, but Percy had long ago lost any sensitivity for that odor. Using the shovel as a lever, he was able to push the coffin off-center. He then bashed the coffin locks apart with the shovel, one by one. Occasionally during all of this he would glance out down toward the road, but no one was there.

With the last of the locks, he clammered out of the grave. He tossed the shovel into the back of the truck and walked down to the gate. The sun was close to setting, and the long shadows of gravestones stretched out across his path. He let himself out, relocking the gate, and trudged back to his trailer. He stopped at the corner of the cemetery, flipped open a metal alarm box, and punched in the code.

He then crossed the small dirt road to his trailer and entered. He called Pookie in. She trotted up, some wild mix of collie, Irish setter, and a few other trips to the woodpile. He locked his door, grabbed a few cans of beer, and nestled back into his place on the couch. Plenty of time when dawn came to fill in the grave. And packed tight it would stay, after tonight. That’s what old Mrs. Bumiller would find when she showed back up tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow after that.

Cemetery didn't open until 10:00 on Saturday, anyway. The hours were right there beside the gate. He grinned at Pookie, who panted back from her pile of blankets.

It was only when the screaming began two hours after sunset that he realized he hadn't seen Mrs. Bumiller's car the entire day.

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.