Dream With Little Angels (18 page)

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing you'll ever have to worry about.” She turned and even smiled at me before pulling back onto the street. We drove down all the clumpy gravel roads following the basin where Stillwater Creek and Clover Creek ran. These weren't even roads at all, just ruddy patches of hard-packed mud where nobody but fishermen and truck drivers generally come. Occasionally, me and Dewey rode through here on our bikes, but not very often.

Eventually, my mother turned up Main Street, which, compared to most other streets in town, was rather brightly lit. We went slow, stopping to look down each intersection we went by.

From the console between us, my mother's car phone sprang to life. She hefted it up and answered the call. “Hey, Chris. Oh, thank God. No, no. Have they seen you? Okay, just leave them . . . let me take care of it.” A long pause followed. Afterward, Mom sighed. “No, I'm fine. I have Abe with me. Yes . . . yes, of course that's why.” She laughed. “I already called Stephen McFarren's father and read him the riot act on second-degree rape. No, it won't escalate from there . . . No, Chris? Seriously. Just go back to the station. Please? Let me handle this? I'm calm. Here, listen.” She held the phone toward me. “Am I calm?”

“She seems fairly calm,” I said, although she'd never asked me to vouch like this before, so I suddenly felt she might be less calm than I had thought a few seconds earlier. “Okay, thanks, Chris,” she said into the phone. “Yes, I will call you immediately after I send him on his way. Thanks again.”

Ending the call, she tossed the phone onto the mat at her feet. It landed with a thump as she accelerated west on Main Street. I glanced at the speedometer. “Aren't we going a bit fast?” I asked.

“I'm a cop. I'm allowed to speed.”

“Okay.”

W
e came to the end of Main Street and kept going, the buildings on either side of us breaking to knotted forests of oak and hemlock. They loomed far above the street, blocking out what little night light there was. Even the streetlamps were spaced farther apart out here. We crossed over Blackberry Creek and I realized we were headed way out of Alvin.

“Where are we going?”

“A few miles outside of town. It's exactly how I guessed it. They're parked at the side of some back-ass dirt road running along one of the ranches. It just better not be
exactly
like I guessed it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

Main Street split off into Old Highway Seventeen and New Highway Seventeen, which folks just called Highway Seventeen. That's the way we went. The only things out here were ranch houses, farms, old barns, and lots and lots of crops and cattle. On either side of us, a mist blanketed the fields. Out my window, I saw the tall barn of the old Hunter place barely rising above it. Old Man Hunter no longer owned the ranch; he had sold it years ago. Back when he did have it, he grew soy and corn. Now it was just cattle. On the other side of the car, the Shearers' cotton farm sat nearly invisible in the white fog.

The road came up out of the fog as we went past the Allen farm. There were two farmhouses on the farm, an old one set closer to the road (it had been built back before New Highway Seventeen came through their land) and a new one. The old one was barely a husk of what it once was. Jesse James Allen and his grandfather built the new one after the one they lived in burned almost all the way to the ground six years ago. Jesse's grandfather liked to say they built it practically by hand, but the truth, according to my mother, was that they got a lot of help from the hired hands that came up from Mexico that year.

I couldn't believe the old farmhouse was still standing. I only caught a glimpse of it. It was an ugly sight, standing there like some hollow-eyed creature scarred and black amidst a sea of fog. It made me shiver as the road dipped back into the mist, hiding it again.

Jesse James Allen wasn't much older than Carry. He was eighteen, which apparently put him a year younger than her new boyfriend. “How come I never see Jesse James Allen no more?” I asked.

My mother thought this over. “After the fire, he wasn't the same. He lost his mother, father, and grandmother, remember? Think of how that would affect you.”

“I
did
lose them,” I said. “Although to be right honest, I don't much remember Grandma or my pa.”

“Well, you were young,” my mother said. “And true enough, you have experienced a lot of death for such a little person. But it was different for you—you didn't lose them all at once. And like you said, you hardly knew your pa.”

“Sometimes I wish I had,” I said. “Known my pa, I mean.”

She frowned. “Well, I'm afraid we're going to have to postpone
this
conversation for another day. Right now I'll be giving you answers I'll regret later on.” Why did I always get the feeling my mother was mad at my pa for dying on her? It didn't make any sense to me. I didn't think he
meant
to die. Probably, if he had the choice, he'd still be here with us cooking up barbecue for dinner every night like most pas did.

I realized I had my photo of my pa in my pocket. It made me feel good, knowing my lucky picture was with us. Things would work out okay, no matter what. I just knew it.

“I'm sorry, Abe,” she said. “I didn't mean . . . It's just . . . I don't like talking about your pa.”

“I know,” I said. I
did
know this. I just didn't know why. Again, I wondered if it was because she was mad at him for up and dying on us. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be missing him if she was upset with him. I didn't rightly know. Then I thought about my grandpa. Unlike my pa, I got to know my grandpa very well before he died. He was fun. I really enjoyed it when we were together. Grandpa taught me how to play checkers. We used to play all the time, even after he went into the hospital, and I'd win most of the games. Although, when I thought back on it now, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd let me win some of them on purpose.

I remembered when I found out he died. I don't think I ever cried so much in my whole entire life. I still missed him a lot, and sometimes found myself crying because of it. Usually, only when I was alone in my bed.

I wondered if my mother felt the same way about my grandpa as she did about my pa.

“Am I allowed to miss Grandma and Grandpa?” I asked her. Like my pa, we rarely spoke of my grandparents. My mother didn't like talking about them, either. Maybe it was just dead people in general that made her uncomfortable, I didn't rightly know. I did know that I couldn't remember when we last visited their graves. We'd gone a couple of times after Grandpa first died, but hadn't been since.

I thought Grandpa deserved a visit.

My mother's face fell. She reached over and touched the side of my head. “Oh, honey, you're allowed to miss anybody you want. Even your father. I just—I have Carry to worry about right now. And for the record? I miss Grandma and Grandpa, too. They were taken from us too early.” Tears touched her eyes. She tried to keep me from seeing them as she reached up and let the Virgin Mother play in her fingers. The silver chain bounced on her throat. I knew that necklace meant a lot to her. My grandpa gave it to her before he died, and it was one of the few things she kept in her life to remind her of him. In fact, I never once saw her take it off. “Your grandpa would be so proud at what a great boy you've turned into,” she said.

“What about Carry?” I asked.

“What do you . . . Oh—” She wiped her face, realizing what I meant. “Honey, they would both be so proud of
both
of you. You know, your sister isn't really doing anything wrong. I mean she
is,
but she ain't doin' nothin' every other fourteen-year-old doesn't do. At least the headstrong ones. The others all
think
about doing it. At least you gotta give Caroline that—she's got guts and initiative. Probably at this point they outweigh her brains.”

We turned down a dark gravel road. My mother drove slowly. Neither of us spoke. I had no idea why, but I felt excited anticipation building inside me. It was almost like
I
was the one who snuck out and was about to get caught.

Sure enough, a few blocks later, a red car came into sight. Parked at the side of the road, it was barely visible in the misty night.

Mom pulled over immediately. “Okay, you're going to stay here. Understand? Sit quietly in this seat and do not move.”

I nodded. I was getting used to waiting in the car. Mom sat back in her seat for a second with both hands on the wheel and took a big deep breath. “Calm, happy thoughts, Leah,” she said, and got out.

As soon as she was far enough away, I rolled both windows down. There was no way I was missing this. Dewey would want a full report in the morning.

My mother approached the car slowly and quietly on the passenger side. She even crept the last part of the way. I felt like I was actually getting to watch her do her job—something I'd always wanted to do, but something she constantly refused to allow except for the other day when she brought me along to the murder scene of Mary Ann Dailey. But that was only on account of me being a witness and all. Even though, since then, I had started suspecting my mother had other motives for wanting me to see the body that day, like maybe I was supposed to learn something from it. One thing was for sure: I would never forget looking into Mary Ann Dailey's dead eyes. They'd be with me until I died myself.

Through the dark mist hanging along the road between our car and Stephen McFarren's Firebird, I saw my mother's hand go up and try the door. Apparently it was unlocked because in the next instant she slammed it open and, in one motion, pulled Carry right out from the backseat. My sister got tangled in the shoulder belt from the front and I could see her dealing with that while simultaneously trying desperately to get her shirt back on. She was wearing her bra though, and her bottom parts were, from where I sat anyway, still clothed. That was a detail Dewey would want to know for sure.

With Carry mainly dressed and free of the shoulder belt, my mother began walking her back toward our car when Carry's boyfriend stumbled from the driver's side of his Firebird. My guess was that he had been delayed on account of having to put whatever clothes had been removed from his body back onto it before getting out.

Even in the misty darkness, Stephen McFarren looked like one of those tall, goofy senior guys you always saw with skateboards or in movies. His hair was dark and curly, his body seemed too thin to support his height, and his teeth shone white even on this dark street, appearing way too big for his mouth. I figured Carry could do a lot better.

Stephen McFarren started shouting at my mother. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he wasn't at all happy with her pulling Carry away from him and his backseat. Then I heard him say something about calling the police on her.

Which, of course, I immediately knew was a huge mistake. I just didn't know exactly
how
huge until I saw what happened next.

I don't even know where she'd had it, but suddenly my mother's gun was in her hands and she had both arms held straight out, pointing the barrel of her weapon directly at Stephen McFarren, exactly the way she told me and Dewey to never hold a gun unless we wanted someone to get hurt. Somehow, while pulling out her gun, my mother had also managed to push Carry down to a kneeling position on the street at her feet. It all took place in one instantaneous movement that I must have blinked through, because I missed it entirely.

“If I was you, young man,” she said, “I'd get back into my vehicle right this instant and head for home.” Her voice had risen in volume and was commanding in a way I had never heard before.

Stephen McFarren's hands shot straight up over his head. “Whoa, lady. Hold on. There's some mistake . . .”

“There's no mistake,” my mother said. “Get back in your car right now, or I'll blow your fucking head off. And if you ever go near my daughter again, I will blow your fucking
testicles
off. Do I make myself clear?”

Stephen McFarren just stood there stunned. Or maybe he was frozen with fear. Or maybe he peed himself. I know I very well could have in his position.

“I said, do I make myself clear?” my mother yelled.

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Then why are you still standing there? Go. Get in your goddamn car and drive away.”

Stephen McFarren leaped behind the wheel of his red Firebird and slammed the door. Starting the car, he drove off with the passenger door still open. Half a block away he stopped, reached across, and closed that. Then he continued on in a peel of rubber.

“You okay, baby?” my mother asked Carry as she helped her into the backseat of our car. She sounded completely calm once more. It was as though she had some magical switch that she could just flip on and off.

I sat there in the front with my mouth hanging open. Never in my life had I heard my mother use those words. Of course, I'd never seen her threaten to kill someone, either. I started thinking back to all the times she ever got mad and yelled at me and realized I probably hadn't been that bad after all.

My mother turned the car around and headed back toward the highway. Carry still hadn't said a word yet. She was just sitting there in the backseat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Finally she said, “I can't believe you, Mother. All the girls date older guys. I don't know what your problem is.”

“You're not ‘all the girls,' ” my mother said.

“I can't believe you pulled your gun,” I said.

“I can't believe I didn't pull the trigger.”

We drove in silence awhile. My mother turned onto Highway Seventeen and once again we started passing all the farms on the outskirts of town. “Guess I'm pretty grounded,” Carry said.

“Let's talk in the morning,” my mother said. “When I don't have a loaded gun this close to my hand.”