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 She might as well have been murdered. She will never be the same again. She has no one to go to, no place to turn. |
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A JUNE FICTION SPECIAL
WARNING: This story contains profanity and descriptions
of a sexual nature that may be offensive to some readers
of TheColumnists.com
Cat’s away, mice play. So here’s Mary Lou
Foster, whose folks run a dry goods and notions store in town,
and are off like clockwork every Friday with a week’s meals
for ailing Grandpa Foster at Fisher’s Pass 60 miles up river.
Crawfish, oyster stew, pots of cooked and spiced shrimp, plum
pudding pie… And not due back home until Saturday noon.
It’s the first day the sun’s showed in a week. Day
like this, Mary Lou thinks, it’s a sin to be confined in
a classroom. “Let’s cut school,” she suggests
to Jody Wilk who volunteers with her two days a week at the hospital.
Jody’s conscience does a brief twitch. But she is thrilled
that popular cheerleader and beauty contest winner Mary Lou selects
her for this misdemeanor. So now here they are with not a soul
in sight, skinny-dipping in Dead Man’s Creek, splashing,
giggling, and swimming out to the raft. Chattering away like
happy mice at a picnic and having a jolly old time.
The sky’s a pale hazy blue, bleeding into the horizon. It
even smells blue, Mary Lou says.
“So,” Jody Wilk asks, “have you made up your mind?”
She means between Tommy Trane and Jon Mork, Mary Lou’s head-over-heels
young suitors who compete like Olympics contenders for her undying
love. Well now. Mary Lou is strictly raised and, you better believe
it, a good, strong-willed girl. Fine for kisses, hugs, and carefully
rationed feels, but that’s as far as it goes. Still a virgin,
which takes some doing in these parts.
“I’m in no hurry. Goodness sake Jode, I just turned
seventeen. I’ll get married some day, but not before finishing
college. Listen up, girl: I plan to make something of myself.”
No one in sight did we say? Well, that’s not entirely
true. Over yonder scrunched down in the undergrowth beneath the
shade of a spreading banyan tree, squats sometime Deputy Judd
Hill and three beer guzzling cronies--Bone, Lane, and Little
Sam. Sneak peeking, taking turns with Lane’s binocs, feasting
fevered eyes on the bare-ass frolickers unwittingly parading
their wares.
“Hey, boy,” asks rail-thin Bone, hungry-eyed as a dog
in heat, “how’d you-all like some of that poon?”
They’re not looking at Jody Wilk.
Judd smacks fat puffy lips. “Son, that sweet smellin’
snatch suits me fine. I aim to get myself some right soon,”
he says in a voice sacred vow earnest. "You can lay odds
on it.” He’s been stalking Mary Lou for weeks.
Judd on the sad edge of 40 is a hairy beast topping six-four
and 260 or so, muscles bulging his tobacco juice soiled undershirt.
A power station in his own right. His brother Hawley’s a
full time deputy so Judd is solidly in with the law. He works
on and off at the lumberyard. Now here he is with three days’
whiskers, crooked busted teeth, breath fouled by whiskey, beer,
and a profound absence of brushing. Not your ideal model citizen.
Some in town say that Grant Polk, beaten senseless three years
back after a barroom brawl; met his maker at Judd’s hand.
Never proven or even tried, but fear crawls like a slithering
cottonmouth in murder’s wake. Judd Hill is the most feared
man in town.
Down below over the creek, a lone seagull hovers, tuning in on
the girls’ frivolous chatter.
Bone’s curiosity is aroused. “How you aim to nail that
poon?”
“I got my ways.” Judd’s guttural voice rasps like
sandpaper on rough grain. A frog croaks in the creek. Remarkable
how alike their two voices sound.
Lane, baby-faced beyond his years, shakes his head. “No
way, Hozay. That little girl’s a hellcat. Near to scratched
Gordy Mack’s eyes out the time he snuck up on her. Took
weeks for the claw marks to heal.”
“Gordy Mack!” Judd’s voice spits with contempt.
“That boy don’t know squat about hookin’ poon.
Send a boy to do a man’s job, what the fuck you expect?”
“So how would a man go about it,” Little Sam, tree
stump stunted, wants to know, winking at Bone.
“Only one way to make a contrary bitch comply,” Judd
replies with the exaggerated patience one might use to lecture
a child. “You gotta convince her.” He grabs hold of
his crotch. “If this convincer don’t work, this one
will.” He points to the nightstick he carries.
Bone doesn’t buy it. “You’re crazy, Judd. You’re
fantasizin’. No way an ugly critter like you gonna get into
the pants of a looker like that.”
“You watch your mouth, boy.” Judd whips his fist like
a rifle shot to Bone’s shoulder.
An electric charge surges through him. He bites down hard to
suppress tears. He should have known. Judd in his lifetime has
acquired only one expertise. He knows how to inflict pain.
“Shit, you got no call to do that.”
Judd ignores the complaint. “Hey, big mouth, you think I
can’t tame that little bitch. Put your money where you mouth
is. I got 50 bucks says I’ll be humpin’ Mary Lou before
the day is over, and she’ll be beggin’ for more.”
Bone’s eyes bug. “Before the day is over! That’s
what you’re sayin’?”
“You hard of hearing, son?”
Bone asks meekly now, “How you gonna prove it?”
“No problem. Proof comes with the deal. Put up your money.
I’ll cover whatever you put up.”
Bone doesn’t see how he can lose. “I’ll put up
50. Providin’ it comes with the proof.”
“Me too,” Lane and Little Sam echo.
A sure thing far as they can see.
“How you gonna prove it?” Little Sam wants to know.
“Okay, here’s how we work it. You all get your asses
over to Mary Lou’s place by 2:30 a.m. Her folks are away.
They take off every Friday until Saturday noon. All you gotta
do is stay hid and peek in the bedroom window in back. At exactly
three on the dot I’ll flash on the light for a minute or
so, long enough for you all to see me in bed with the bitch.
Will that be proof enough?”
“Good enough for me,” Bone replies, the pain still
exploding in his shoulder.
The others nod.
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At 2 a.m. a full moon hangs low in an inky black cloudless
sky. Judd moves stealthily through the woods leading round to
Mary Lou’s house. The red two-story clapboard house with
gray trim is dark as new tar when he gets there. The cicadas
in the woods sound like electric wires humming in the power plant
across town. Not a soul is in sight. A muggy swamp smell pervades
the hot humid air.
Mary Lou has contemptuously rejected him often enough for Judd’s
temper to be at full roil along with his juices. He has been
planning this for weeks. Careful as he is stealthy, he checked
in the morning to make certain Mary Lou’s folks were really
gone. The bitch was home alone by her lonesome. A crying shame,
Judd thinks. Rich ripe cherry like that should have company.
Judd even shaved for the occasion and washed under his arms.
He will be irresistible.
A bullfrog barks angrily in the pond back of Mary Lou’s
house. Judd pulls out his packet of picks. Getting into the house
takes three minutes.
Her bedroom’s in the rear facing the pond. He moves quietly.
The bedroom door is open. The full moon shines in through the
window. Judd sports a fat erection and his heart is pumping hard.
The bitch is fast asleep, her breathing regular, the light yellow
blanket thrust off. She has on a flimsy pink shorty nightgown.
Judd’s breath blows faster and faster.
The rapist yanks off his pants, shirt and jockey shorts. As he
approaches the bed, Mary Lou stirs.
“Surprise, baby!”
Judd pounces. He clamps one hand over Mary Lou’s mouth and
uses the other to rip off the nightgown. Her anguished scream
fades into the pillow. She claws like a swamp cat, savagely lashing
out with her nails, desperately going for his eyes, twisting
and squirming. She rips an ugly slash down his cheek.
“Damn!”
Judd’s hand feels for the wound. His fingers come away sticky
wet.
“Fuckin’ bitch!” Judd spits the words in a fury.
He slams down hard with an iron fist on her breast. He strikes
again and again.
“No, please!” Mary Lou cowers, eyes screaming. The
raw pain sears and intensifies; hot coals explode in her breasts.
She begs, “Please don’t hurt me again!”
“You gonna be good?”
”Yes.” Judd lowers his fist. She moans gratefully.
Judd’s voice turns creepy gentle. “I don’t wanna
hurt you, baby. All I want’s to make you happy.”
He slips into bed and rolls over on top of her breathing heavy.
Mary Lou is too pain-wracked and terrified to resist. The burning
coals permeate her being.
When Judd is done he flops off. His hard breathing subsides.
Mary Lou lies still, uncontrollably trembling. Afraid to move
or open her mouth.
“Mary Lou, baby.”
She doesn’t respond.
He slaps her face smartly. Her head jerks back.
“Hey, you listen up, girl?”
Her eyes blink.
“You breathe one word about this and your ma and pa is dead
meat. You got that? I’ll shoot them dead in this house while
you watch.”
Sure as the roof getting wet when it rains, there’s no doubt
in her mind he will do what he says.
“You understand what I’m sayin’?”
She nods.
“All right then. You’re my woman now. My secret woman.”
Judd takes a look at his wrist. A couple of minutes to go. At
precisely three on the dot he flicks on the bed light. Faces
reflect through in the window.
Judd lies there fondling her. When he feels himself harden he
mounts her again. Mary Lou prone like a discarded rag doll. Minutes
later Judd gets dressed and departs.
Next day he collects on the wager.
Mary Lou wants only to die. She takes showers, one
after another. She tells Tommy Trane and Jon Mork she can’t
talk but won’t say why. She might as well have been murdered.
She will never be the same again. She has no one to go to, no
place to turn.
She opens the medicine chest and removes Pa’s straight-edged
razor. She touches the blade to her wrist and flinches at the
trickle of blood. She fills a glass with water and pours in half
a bottle of aspirins. She is suddenly terrified by the prospect
of entering hell. She pours the milky fluid down the toilet and
buries the jar in the garbage bin.
Mary Lou is afraid to live and she is too scared to die.
The birds shrilling outside don’t sound real.
Her folks come home around noon. Her mom peers at her and asks
what is wrong. She complains about an upset stomach. Her mom
shakes her head. “Land sakes, girl, what did you eat while
we were gone?” Her father asks, “Should I call the
doctor?”
“No, Pa, it’ll pass.”
Days crawl by, two, three, four. She forces herself
to go back to school.
Jon and Tommy keep calling.
She keeps her crying spells secret. Makes a desperate effort
to role play her former life. At school she talks woodenly to
Tommy and Jon but won’t date either one of them.
She is damaged merchandise. Ruined. Worth less than a bug under
a stone. She can never go with a boy again. She doesn’t
deserve to live. Lacks the courage to die.
Friday night her lover visits again. Mary Lou is a sodden lump
of flesh under his bulk. “Good girl,” he commends.
When the rapist leaves she takes showers again, and again and
again. But there is nothing can clean her.
For her parents she must keep up appearances. Their lives are
in her hands. But she can’t go on like this. She must do
something. But what? She can’t go to the police, not with
Judd and Hawley Hill deputies. Who would believe her? The suction
of fear drains the option of any alternative.
Finally, Mary Lou formulates a plan. She has $82 saved in her
green turtle bank. When she has $200 saved from her allowance
and sitting jobs she will leave home. She will simply disappear
and make a new life for herself. Somehow. Somewhere. That is
her plan. Others have done it. So can she.
Judd had neglected to lock
the door when he left her bed at 4 a.m. Saturday morning at 10
the doorbell rings. There is no answer.
Tommy Trane tries the knob. He steps into the foyer and hears
the shower running upstairs. He knows Mary Lou’s parents
are away and feels like an intruder. Yet something’s weird
about the way Mary Lou has been acting. What’s going on?
He has to know.
He sits on a kitchen chair and waits until she comes down in
a flowery peach robe.
“Tommy!”
“Yeah, Tommy. Mary Lou, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Mary Lou, I’m entitled to know.” She turns away
from his eyes. “Did you find someone else?”
She doesn’t answer. Her lips quiver.
He gets up from the chair, grabs her roughly and shakes her.
“Damn it, tell me!”
Mary Lou breaks down into deep wrenching sobs. She is unable
to stop. Tommy holds her until the sobbing subsides.
“Tell me. What happened?”
She opens up. Between sobs she spills out her gut. What Judd
Hill did to her. How he threatened to kill her parents if she
told. “Tommy, he’d do it. I know sure as I’m breathing
he’d do it.”
“Jesus!”
“Tommy…” She frantically pledges him to silence.
They talk. Mary Lou pours out her heart, tries to convince him
she’s worthless. She’s the slave, Judd’s the master.
“How can I love you? How can I love anyone? I’m nothing.
I wish he’d just killed me."
“Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s the way I feel. I can’t stay in this town,
in this state.”
She confides her plan and finally gets him to leave.
Judd Hill lives a mile or so from the lumberyard. A
dusty tree-lined road leads to the ramshackle house he shares
with his brother Hawley and whatever woman of the moment one
or the other invites in.
Monday afternoon finds Judd trudging home from work in the stifling
96 degree heat. He has on faded blue denims cut short, a dirty
undershirt slung over his shoulder. The smoky air smells like
sawdust and tastes even worse. Hawley has the pick-up and no
way will pick him up. So he walks.
Suddenly Jon Mork’s beat up old VW pulls up alongside, Tommy
Trane casually sprawled in the back.
Jon calls out in a bright cheery voice, “Hey, Judd, want
a lift?”
Judd makes no effort to conceal his surprise. “Well, waddya
know! If this don’t beat all.” He chuckles. “How
come you two shitheads are hangin’ out? I thought you was
mortal enemies battlin’ over that poon.”
Jon Mork shrugs and raises his eyes. “That’s past tense,”
he says. “Mary Lou got no more use for us. So me and Tommy
shook and made up. Figure there’s no sense fighting over
something that’s no longer available. We heard about the
bet that you made. It’s all over town. Tell the truth, Judd,
we’re fairly busting with curiosity. You must’ve weaved
a magic spell over that girl. We want to know how you did it.
Me and Tommy thought you might give us a pointer or two. You
know, tell us what we gotta do to get us some poon of our own.”
“Well, how about that,” Judd says. He breaks out in
a grin.
The idea appeals to him. Instructor, coach, mentor. It’s
one of his favorite roles.
“You want a lift, or don’t you?” Jon repeats.
“Sure, why not? Okay, I’ll give you fuckups a tip or
two.”
Jon opens the passenger door. Judd squeezes his huge frame into
the small vehicle. Tommy sits up in the back seat. The two boys
are all ears.
“The first thing you gotta know you want to get into a bitch’s
pants,” Judd begins professorially, “is you gotta let
her know who’s the boss. She either does what you want,
or gets whacked, and I ain’t talkin’ paddy cake. You
understand what I’m sayin’?”
“Sure do,” Tommy replies.
“Well, okay. The second thing…”
They drive on, the boys heeding Judd’s counsel attentively.
Judd Hill in his glory is having the time of his life.
Time plods its relentless journey. A month passes,
then two, three, and four. One steamy Friday afternoon Tommy
comes home from school and his mom hands him $37. “I’m
fresh out of stamps and I got letters to write. Run down to the
post office, dear, and get me a roll.”
“Sure thing, Ma.”
At the PO Tommy greets a few people he knows. He makes his purchase
and strolls casually to the bulletin board by the far wall where
photos of a half dozen missing persons are posted. Five children
and one adult, Judd Hill, who has been missing since April. Tommy
stands gazing at Judd’s photo when he senses a presence
behind him. He turns to face Judd’s brother, Deputy Sheriff
Hawley Hill.
“Mornin’, Deputy.”
“Howdy, son.”
The deputy, sad as swamp sediment, says, “You remember my
kid brother, Tommy?”
“Sure do. Judd’s a hard man to forget. I wonder whatever
became of him.”
Sheriff Hill aims a wad for the spittoon. “You ain’t
the only one. Beats me, son. He just up and disappeared one fine
day. Never found hide nor hair of him.”
Tommy shakes his sympathetically. “It’s a crazy world.”
Tomorrow is Tommy’s
turn to escort Mary Lou to the regular Saturday night school
dance. Next week that honor will go to Jon Mork.
©2004 by Ray Dreyfack.
The illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895
Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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