Evangeline (8 page)

Angeline turned to meet his sober gaze.

“That’s when I first knew Billy was crazy.  He was always doing weird shit like that.  Someday my brother’s gonna hurt someone.  I mean really hurt ‘em.  And he’s gonna die in prison.”

The moment lingered until Caleb lifted the joint to his lips again, then changed his mind and offered it to Angeline instead.  “You know, this might help that stutter.”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

Angeline  kept her eyes on the road and nodded.   Stutter or not, the idea of permanent brain damage held no appeal.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Caleb, taking the hit himself.  “How long you had that anyway?”

“Can we puh-puh-puh-please not talk ab-ab-about this?”

“Not a problem,” he said, pausing to consider a different topic.  “So… if music’s not your thing, what does Angeline Gottschalk do for relaxation?”

“I like to read.”

“Oh, yeah?  What do you read?”

“Books… books and ppp-poetry.”

“Poetry, huh?”  Caleb took a hit off the joint.  “I know a poem.  Wanna hear it?”

“Okay.”

He cleared his throat then began.  “Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her poor dog a bone.  But when she bent over, Rover took over… and gave her a bone of his own.”

The boy finished with a pleased grin, but Angeline didn’t get it.  I think my sister was more of an Emily Dickenson kind of gal.  Caleb’s grin melted and he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.  “Anyway…” he said, drumming on the dashboard and gazing out the window.  “What about this fog, huh?”

The greyish soup had thickened across the prairie-- that wide-open tableland stretching from the Nebraska Sandhills to the Niobrara River on the South Dakota border.  Angeline had already slowed the truck, afraid of plowing into another vehicle or some dumb farm animal wandering across the road.

“Whoa!” Caleb suddenly exclaimed.  He squinted hard into the mist then pointed to a spot just ahead.  “Quick.  Pull in here!”

Angeline turned with a questioning look.  “Wa-wa-what’s--?”

“Pull over!” 

She jerked the wheel hard and braked on a hardpack dirt road that led out to one of the private ranches in that part of the county.  Caleb leapt from the cab and was moving toward the front of the truck when Angeline heard it-- a dull rumbling that sounded like rolling thunder.  In the next instant a herd of wild horses came charging out of the fog at full gallop.  The beasts crossed the road in front of them, surging through the headlights like specters, hooves pounding the earth.

Angeline sat mesmerized as the mustangs rushed past.  The moment was magical… almost dreamlike.  With his butt propped against the fender, Caleb turned and grinned at her through the windshield.  And then the last horse, a shaggy-maned white stallion, flashed through the lights and vanished like a ghost in the swallowing mist. 

A deep, fog-shrouded quiet followed.  Caleb took a final hit of his joint then flicked it away and strolled back to the cab.  Once he’d settled back into his seat, he turned to Angeline with a grin that stretched clear back to the molars.        

“Now that was fucking amazing.”

The Quinn home wa
s
at the end of a long, unpaved road in the village of Mineola.  The ranch-style house was in a terrible state of disrepair, with trash and rusted vehicles littering the front yard. 

“You don’t have to say it,” said Caleb with an embarrassed smile as Angeline braked out front.  “I know it’s beautiful.”  He pointed out a vehicle, propped on wooden blocks, that looked like someone had cut a car in half then welded a truck bed to the back.      

“Those are my wheels,” he told her.  “’84 Chevy El Camino.  I worked on that friggin’ thing all summer.  Couple more weeks I should have it on the road.”  He turned to Angeline.  “When I do, I’ll take you for a ride.  How’s that sound?” 

“I’d like that,” she smiled.

“You know the way out of here?” he asked, zipping his Carhartt.

Sister nodded then said, “C-c-can I… can I ask you…?”

“Ask me anything.”

Normally Angeline resented people finishing her sentences, but that rule didn’t seem to apply to Caleb.  With Prince Charming, things were different.   She locked eyes with the boy and asked him, “Wah--why are you being so nice to muh-mme?”

Friends, it was a question that had already crossed my mind a thousand times.  And for the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. 

“It’s all about the cookies,” he said, smiling.

Angeline wasn’t amused.  “I’m serious,” she told him with an intensity I’d seldom seen.

Caleb’s smile melted.  “I know you are,” he said, then took a moment to collect his thoughts.  “Okay, I’m gonna tell you the truth… just promise me you won’t get all pissed off again.” Without waiting for that promise, the boy continued.  “The truth is I felt guilty about what Billy was doing to you, only I never had the balls to call him out.  I tried it when I was younger and it never worked out so well.”

“So you felt sorry for mmmm-me,” Angeline said, feeling the tears coming.

“Hold on, let me finish,” Caleb answered quickly.  “It’s true.   I did feel that way.  But I also wanted to get to know you, Angel… and I thought maybe I could help you.”

Angeline turned away when she heard this.  So she was a charity case after all. 

Caleb gently cupped her chin and turned a face damp with tears.  “Hey, that’s not pity, Angel, if that’s what you’re thinking.  That’s called being a friend.” 

He kissed her forehead softly.  I could almost feel my sister’s body melting into her shoes.

“Besides,” Caleb continued.  “You and me… we’ve got more in common than you think.”  He pushed open the door, hopped out then turned before closing the door.  “Sure you can get home?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Then thanks for the ride.  I owe you one.”  He shut the door and headed up the driveway.  Angeline watched until he disappeared into the house.

Friends, at the tim
e
I had no way of knowing whether that boy believed everything he’d told Angeline.  I just know
she
believed him, and that’s really all that mattered.  For once in her miserable life, my sister seemed genuinely happy.  And God knows that girl deserved a little happiness.  I couldn’t bear it when the poor thing cried.  And Angeline cried a lot.

That night, back in her room at the farmhouse, Sister wept again-- but not the usual tears of sorrow and self-pity.  No, these were tears born of an entirely different emotion.  One she’d never experienced before.

Angeline had fallen in love. 

chapter five

On an unseasonably war
m
late October night, with Mother sealed in her room and Deputy Gottschalk out keeping donut shops safe from the bad guys, I climbed into the Ford F-100 wearing Elvira’s beehive wig and black dress and headed out to do some trick-or-treating. 

I’d already knocked Harland Lee Wade off the hit list, but that wasn’t enough.  Oh no, my friends, that wasn’t nearly enough.  Now that I’d tasted pervie blood, I was hungry for more… and Halloween offered the perfect opportunity to double my fun.  It was an idea that my least favorite deputy sheriff had sparked over breakfast that morning.  Stumpy was in uniform ahead of second shift, scarfing down Tater-Tots, when he began nattering on to Mother about the big murder case in Middle Branch. 

“Looks like it’s gonna be case closed before much longer,” he was saying as he forked a Tater-Tot into his maw.  “We lifted fingerprints from the car… and that bartender--” He stopped mid-chew and glared at Mother.  “Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You listening?”

Mother finished sipping from a glass of milk and turned with a glazed look.     

“Jesus Christ, why do I even bother?” the deputy grumbled.  “It’s like talking to a goddamn fence post.”

Darkness swept the woman’s face.  Her husband must have noticed, too, because he leveled his fork at her.  “You got something to say to me?” 

Instead of answering, Mother began clearing her plate.

“Well, there she goes again.  Give my regards to Jesus,” he smirked as she shuffled from the kitchen.  “And what about you?” he said, turning to Angeline.  “You plan on leavin’ us, too?”

Avoiding eye contact, Angeline kept her gaze focused on her plate.    

“Hey, here’s a better idea,” Stumpy remarked with a snarky grin.  “It’s Halloween, right?  Why don’t you go trick or treatin’?  Hell, that mask could scare the pants off anyone.” 

He guffawed out loud then resumed stuffing his face with Tater-Tots.

Well, my friends… the joke was on Deputy Gottschalk.  Because that dumbass lawman had just planted the seed for some bloody Halloween fun.  There were two doors I intended to knock on that night; one the home of a pedophile pediatrician, the other a Mexican camp counselor who enjoyed diddling young boys.  And how did I identify those two pervie scumbags you ask?  Well, it wasn’t easy.  While Angeline slept I fished through her wastebasket and painstakingly reassembled every torn piece of that list using Scotch Tape and firm resolve.

Walter Eugene Aldric
h
was a former pediatrician whose modus operandi was getting young patients alone in the exam room and giving them physicals they neither wanted nor needed.   Having been banished from the medical profession, the pervie had taken up residence in a remote Holt County location about fifteen miles north of Hainesville.  When I pulled the truck up to his home the porch light was burning; an open invitation to trick-or-treaters.  My first thought was, who in their right mind would drive all the way out here to the country to take candy from a pervie?

Only one person I knew of.

I slipped on my little black eye mask, fashioned from a rubber band and a remnant cut from Elvira’s dress, then grabbed a pillowcase with my bag of Halloween tricks and exited the pickup.  Negotiating the brick walkway and the steps leading to the farmer’s porch was an adventure in heels, but somehow I made it to the door without fracturing an ankle. 

The doorbell failed to ding-dong so I knocked until a balding middle-aged man with a pudgy face answered.  Except for the round wireframe glasses, the good doctor looked just like I remembered him from the mug shot.

“Trick or treat!” I announced, thrusting the pillowcase forward.

“Well.  And who are you supposed to be young lady?”

“I am Evangeline, defender of the weak and defenseless.”

“Is that right?  Well, Evangeline, looks like you could be my only visitor tonight,” said the doctor with a grin that I wanted to slap from his face.  He extended a bowl of candy corn and said, “Go ahead, young lady.  Take all you want.”

I really hate candy corn.  Candy corn sucks.  One more reason the bastard had to die.

“If it’s all the same to you, mister,” I said, “how ‘bout a trick instead?”

“Trick?”

I grabbed the hem of the dress and hiked it to my waist.  I wasn’t wearing panties.

“Or would this be a treat?”  I asked him.

The pervie snapped a startled look at my cootchie, glanced nervously toward the road, then said tersely, “Get the hell out of here,” and slammed the door in my face.

To be honest, friends, I was a bit surprised.  A man like that I expected to go whole-hog for the free candy.  In hindsight, I think I may have come on too strong.

I tried knocking again but the porch light blinked out.  And when I tried twisting the doorknob it was locked. 

Rude bastard.

I left my shoes on the porch and headed off through the darkness toward the rear of the house.  After stumbling about in the pitch and stepping in a pile of something squishy, I found the back door open and slipped through into the kitchen.  A television was running somewhere in the house.  I pulled the snub nose .38 from the pillowcase and moved quietly that direction, leaving a trail of dog shit on the floor behind me. 

As I turned from the hallway and entered the living room, I found the doctor sitting in a recliner watching some lame television sitcom.  An old mutt with cataracts for eyes lifted its head from the couch and sniffed my direction.  I plopped down next to him, surprising the shit out of his master.

“Whatcha watchin’?” I asked the doctor nonchalantly.

“How the hell did…?”  He spotted the snub nose in my hand.  “Is that a gun?”

“What?  This little thing?”  I turned the .38 over in my hand.  “I dunno.  Let’s find out.”

BANG!
  I shot him in the knee.

“Ow, ow, ow!” yelped the doctor.

“That feel real to you?” I asked him casually, scratching his pooch behind the ears.

“Are you crazy?!” the doctor shouted back in agony.

I leaned forward, pointing the gun at him. “Honey, if crazy had a ringmaster, I’d be holding the whip.”

The laugh-track audience on the sitcom roared.  The mutt on the couch (who, judging by his reaction to the gunshot was as deaf as he was blind) rolled onto his back for a belly scratch. 

“I see you neutered your dog,” I said to the doctor. “Maybe somebody should have cut your balls off instead, huh?”

“Why are you doing this?” the man groaned as he writhed on the chair.

“Because you’ve been a naughty boy, Walter, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you--“

I swung the snub nose to his good leg and pulled the trigger.

BANG!

“Oh, Jesus!” he cried out.  “Oh, sweet Jesus have mercy!”

“Jesus can’t help you, Doc,” I said, standing from the couch and approaching him.  “If I were you, I’d be begging the bitch with the Smith & Wesson.”

“I’m begging you,” he moaned.  “Just don’t shoot me anymore.”

“Are you ready to confess?”

“Yes,” he blubbered.  “Anything.”

“Alright, then repeat after me.  Oh, Evangeline, who art just and merciful, I’m very sorry that I’ve been such a perverted ass plug and hurt so many innocent children.  Please spare my totally bullshit life and I promise I will never again hurt another child.”  I paused then added, “Your turn.”

The doctor panted and stammered, “I… I don’t remember what you…”

BANG!
  I shot him in the shoulder. 

“Owww!  No more!” he howled.

“Walter, if you’re not going to pay attention…”

“I’m paying attention!  I am!”

“Then what did I say?”

“You said… you said… “ 

I swung the gun barrel toward his other shoulder.

“No, wait!”

BANG! 

“AHHHHHH!”

The laugh-track audience hooted and hollered.  The dog lifted his head, sniffed once, then laid back down.  

“Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we, Wally?  Now… do you admit you’re a total pervie?”

“Yes, yes, I am,” he sobbed.  “I’m a total pervie.”

“And are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

“I’m very, very sorry.”

“And you’ll never do it again?” 

“No… never again.  I promise.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Cross my heart and hope…”  The man hitched, suddenly afraid to continue. 

“Yes?”  I said, aiming the gun at his chest.  “Cross your heart and hope to… what?”

The man’s lips remained sealed.

“You know, I hate to say it, Doc.  But I’m not feeling the sincerity.”

I cocked the trigger. 

“Wait!” the man blurted out.  “What else can I do?”

“You can hope to die.”

“But you said if--”

“Don’t listen to me.  I’m crazy, remember?”

BANG!  BANG!
  I buried the last two rounds in the good doctor’s chest.  The man slumped sideways, twitched once then fell still.  As the sitcom laugh-track roared, I unbuckled Doc Aldrich’s belt and worked his pants and underwear down to his ankles.  The dirty bastard had a prodigious pecker-- of porn star proportions, if you catch my drift.  But I’d soon chop that sucker down to size… because your faithful servant had one more trick tucked in her Halloween bag.

You see, friends, as good as I felt after dispatching Harland Lee Wade, there was still this hollow, empty space inside me that needed filling.  At first I couldn’t figure out why, but after giving the matter some serious thought, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t enough to just blow holes in pervies like Harland.  Like any true artist I wanted to leave my signature; a calling card, if you will.  Something with a certain
je ne sais quoi
.  Only what would it be?  I’d thought even longer and harder on that question without any satisfactory solution… until I remembered the Ponca.

The Ponca Indians were once proud warriors of the Plains, spawned from the same horse culture that gave us the Cheyenne and Sioux, two tribes responsible for wiping out Custer’s Seventh Calvary at Little Big Horn.  Back then the Ponca could be similarly fierce, happy to give deep haircuts to their enemies until they, themselves, became targets of the scalp-happy Sioux. 

No match for their powerful neighbors to the north, the Ponca made the wise choice and turned to agriculture in the Niobrara River basin.  Life was pretty good, too, until the paleface showed up one day and spoiled the party.  The Great White Chief in Washington ordered the Ponca out of northeast Nebraska, and the poor bastards were marched from their teepees and into the history books-- which is where Angeline discovered them during sixth period social studies class.

Before leaving the farm for Doc Aldrich’s that night, I’d kept the pickup running outside the barn with the headlamps facing the doors, then rolled them back, flooding the interior with light.  I headed straight for Father’s workbench, passing the dusty clutter of shop tools and machinery--resting just as J.D. had left them the morning he vanished--and tugged the string on the overhead bulb.  

Hand tools were hanging on a pegboard mounted above the bench, each one outlined in black marker. 
A place for everything and everything in its place
, was another of Father’s mantras, so I knew just where to find the tool I’d come for.  In the company of dusty hammers hung a twelve-inch hand sickle with a curved blade.  This tool was commonly used for reaping grain, but yours truly had a much different use in mind. 

Whistling happily as I worked, I clamped the sickle’s wooden handle into a vise fixed to the workbench, then gently worked a cigar stone along the crescent-shaped blade, just as Father had taught Angeline.  Using smooth downward strokes, I sharpened that edge fifteen times on one side and fifteen times the other, before wiping away the burrs and grit with an oily rag.  When I was finished, that sickle was ground sharp as a razor, and I couldn’t wait to test it out on that pervie pediatrician and his sleazebag sidekick, the Mexican butt fucker. 

Following a proud but forgotten Ponca tradition, your trusted servant intended to pay homage to the warrior spirit by taking trophies from my vanquished foes.  But not their scalps.  Oh, no, dear friends.  The souvenirs I collected would send a message loud-and-clear to pervies everywhere, teaching those bastards a history lesson they’d never forget…

Bad boys lose their binkies.

With Doc Aldrich propped in the chair before me, I reached into the pillowcase and lifted the sickle by its hardwood grip, worn smooth by two generations of Gottschalks.  Stretching the good doctor’s prodigious pickle to its full length, I aimed the crescent blade at the thick, fleshy base and, with a snap of the wrist, hacked into the shaft. 

Unfortunately my maiden effort lacked conviction and failed to cut through cleanly.     

“Oh, stubborn, eh?” I muttered.

So I swung harder--one, twice, three times--chopping away like a Canadian lumberjack as the sitcom audience applauded and the dog snored--until Doc’s mighty oak was felled at last.