Dark Avenues Read online

  She pressed her lips onto the gaping red wound and sucked with ravenous haste, filling her throat with each sweet drop. When his body slumped onto the pavement, she grasped his head in both hands and spun until it gave a dry brittle snap. Her lips coated with thick red blood, she raised her head up from Sam’s cold blue corpse, sniffed at the cool summer breeze and peered in the direction where Nicky had gone.

  She dropped Sam’s head, watched it bounce off the pavement like a basketball and sped off after him. I scanned the street for any witnesses and, ignoring the pain flaring across the back of my hands, hurried after them; my chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. A mixture of fear and anxiety churned inside the pit of my stomach, stung the back of my throat and ignited the thunderous rhythm of my heart; sweat beads trickled down my face and brows.

  Nicky was running toward a strip of train tracks streaking across a short grassy hill at the back of a nearby modular, his face blanched with horror. She waited for him to approach the halfway point before she stepped in front of him, a hideous hungry figure borne from the shadows of his nightmares. He froze, his body stiff and trembling with fear, and uttered a loud terrifying scream.

  She swiped her hand across his face, filling my ears with the soft pliable sound of torn flesh and ushered an inner gorge toward the back of my throat. The mingled stench of expended bowels and blood now rode on the breeze and made me cringe with disgust.

  When he lowered her arm, Nicky’s head spun to the left, pressing his jawline against the meaty part of his right shoulder rolled away before it was swallowed by the high grass weaving silently in the breeze. His fat headless corpse staggered across the lawn in a drunken stupor, each step pumping a fresh geyser of blood into the air that aroused my sister’s uncanny appetite.

  Once he kneeled down, she braced his shoulders with both hands and buried her face into the pulpy red stub where his head used to be. She suckled, her mouth siphoning one sweet drop of his sweet red juices after the other, her hair flailing wildly around her face. When she spotted me from the corner of her right eye, her face coated with “thug” blood, she yanked her lips away as if it were a hot surface.

  She backed away, her face twisted with horror and fascination, and gazed down at the atrocity she created; Nicky’s headless corpse fell back into the grass. Her face cringing with sadness and disbelief, tears protruded from her eyes and slid down her slick bloody cheeks. She knelt down and cried, her body trembling.

  “Help me, Tyler.” She sobbed, holding her arms out to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it. I swe–”

  I opened my arms when she mumbled something under her breath I couldn’t make out under the soft whispery wind weaving through the grass. Before I could try to decipher what she said, Jan reared her right arm back and punched me hard across the face. She said something else but the pain in my skull was so unbearable that it muffled my ears and lowered my body into the grass that once swallowed my attacker’s decapitated corpse.

  The last image I saw before darkness creeped in were the streaks of blood splattered across the front of her dress and the grass billowing softly in the breeze.

  *****

  ALL of that was months ago, I admit.

  I remember waking up later that night inside of an old boxcar on a bed of hay with an old blanket draped across my waist. Startled, I went from one end of the train to the other, looking closely into each and every car from one end to the other in a desperate search for my little sister that ended in tears. Two miles later, I was hungry so I checked to see how much money I had and got off at the next town.

  I’d found a bright-yellow note amongst the crumpled ball of twenties and fifties inside of my right pocket and read it. Then I read over and over again.

  DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME;

  I’LL BE FINE.

  As much as I wanted to believe her, there was something about that note that said that I shouldn’t. I still had a responsibility handed down to me by my parents even if it meant sacrificing both the life and future that I deserved to have. Jan will always be my little sister and there was nothing I wouldn’t do for her that any other big brother wouldn’t do for their own.

  I’ve been to so many states in so many days I couldn’t tell one from the other. Had I decided to hang around, it wouldn’t have been for long. I’ve been cutting newspaper clippings here and there, each one detailing Jan’s never-ending path of death and destruction and blood.

  She isn’t that far away. I don’t know that for sure but I can feel it, a thick cloying magnetism that only real brothers and sisters have and it hovers above me like a storm cloud of depression. I have nothing to be depressed about anymore because I know deep in my heart that Jan isn’t too far away.

  I’m sitting inside of a three-star motel where five-star men bang two-star prostitutes or truck-stop waitresses looking to write a new chapter in their life and writing all of this on a yellow legal pad. The pen in my hand ran out of ink a little while ago but I’ve got plenty of pens and plenty of paper and a long way to go before I find my little sister.

  And I won’t stop until I do, no matter how long it takes.

  3RD DAY OF THE 3RD WEEK OF EVERY MONTH

  My mother loved her music and she wasn’t afraid to tell anyone at any given time of the day.

  Dolly Parton, The Judds, Heart, Neil Diamond and Bette Midler just to name a few. Her two favorite Tanya Tucker songs were “Soon” and “Delta Dawn”.

  Five years after she died, I found “Delta” and listened to it for the first time and wrote this story.

  BY the time he padded across the concrete circle hugging the tall marble-white water fountain in the middle of the town square, Sheriff Norm Kisor saw the odd-looking shadow eclipsing the front window of Lizzie’s Cafe between the cursive red logo scrawled across the glass and gave a deflated sigh.

  Oh, shit, he thought. Not her again.

  He checked the time on his wristwatch, tucked a folded-up copy of The Madisonville Daily under his left armpit and jammed his hands deep into his pockets. The uncomfortable stares on the faces of the customers inside of Lizzie’s were enough to tell him everything he needed to know; he was a man of the law and could always tell when someone was lying to him or not.

  The early morning breeze carried the sweet smells of hay and wildflowers, reminding him that summer was just getting started. The hairs along the back of his neck and along his arms stiffened, spreading goosebumps across his skin.

  “Good morning, sheriff.” A cheery but familiar voice replied.

  When he glanced over at his right, Dawn Matthews was sitting on a metallic green park bench with her left leg tucked up underneath and her right leg drooped over her left foot. She gazed up at him and cocked her head to the left, her heavy-lidded blue eyes blazing in the early morning light. Her long curly-brown fell down from a part in the top of her head, framed her round tan face and curled around the nape of her neck; a red rose with a thin green stem was tucked behind her right ear like a pencil.

  Her skin always had a unique glow that seem to blossom from somewhere deep inside of her soul. Her brown floral-print dress lay loosely around her slim waist and fluttered softly around her stick-like legs.

  He noticed something on the sidewalk behind her, or at least the shadow of it, leaning against the other side of the bench. He didn’t want to say anything because it would’ve been wrong not to give her a little leeway.

  “Good morning, Dawn.” He grinned, tipping the brim of his hat. “It looks like it’s gonna be a beautiful day today, huh?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Well now, look at you.” He said, scanning her up and down. “You look like a sight for sore eyes, Mizz Matthews.”

  “You know better than to call me ‘Mizz Matthews’.” She said in a bashful tone. “I’m forty-one and my daddy still calls me Baby but you can call me Dawn.”

  “Where are my manners? Do you mind if I join you?”

  “I don’t mind.” She slid away from
the middle of the bench and patted it with her right hand. “I don’t mind tall.”

  He tipped the brim of his hat, set the paper on the bench seat between them and perched his left ankle on his right knee. She slid a little closer to him, her thin pink lips spread into a wide pleasant across her face, but not too close.

  He glanced across the street and peered at the sea of inquiring faces staring back at him from inside the café. Lizzie Stufflebeam, in all her buxom brunette beauty, sneaked a glance at Dawn before pouring a fresh cup of coffee for Hugh Rainey, an old man in a red plaid shirt and jeans with tufts of bedhead white hair jutting out from the sides of his trucker cap. He saw the coffee sloshing around inside the carafe in Lizzie’s hand and licked his lips at the sight of that dark and caffeinated mistress he longed for.

  “Hey, Sheriff.”

  A nearby voice blared in his right ear, stirring him out of his trance. He peered back at her, flashed an appreciative smile and patted her right thigh in a friendly manner. Dawn glanced at him, her face and brows creased with confusion, eased her hand away from his left shoulder before setting it back onto her left wrist.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good.” He lied. “I was up off and on all night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about that.” She said, cocking her head to the right. "Did you have a bad dream? Was it about your wife?"

  He wasted no time in finding the right words to say. He’d been thinking about Amanda a lot lately–more than he usually did actually–especially the memories they shared during their seventeen-year marriage before the big-C punched her clock.

  “You could say that.”

  “My momma used to tell me that pain was paradise for the weak.” She shrugged and then added. “I never knew what she meant by that but it made perfect sense.”

  “Why is that?”

  A few seconds of silence went by before she said, “Because some people enjoy pain to make up the fact that they’re not strong enough to get through their own life. Some people pretend they’re happy but she also said that the people who are in love do it more because they’re afraid to be alone.”

  He had to give her credit, she’d been right about a lot of things. He let it sink but not for too long.

  “Why are you sitting out here in your Momma’s dress?” Norm asked in a curious tone. “I know you didn’t get all dressed up just to come out here and talk to me.”

  She cupped her hands together and gazed up at him with a dream-like quality in her eyes. Her face turned a lovely shade of pink that accentuated the vulva-pink rouge spread across her cheeks; there was a sense of wonder and affection on her face that he hadn’t seen or felt since Amanda died.

  “I’m in love, Sheriff.”

  “Really?” He said, his voice beaming with elation. “So it wasn’t just a bunch of gossip cooked up by all of the blue hairs down at the VFW.”

  A few seconds went by before he prodded her on the shoulder.

  “Are you gonna tell me about the lucky fellow or are you gonna leave me hanging?”

  “He’s not that lucky.”

  “The hell he isn’t.” He said, then shifted around on the bench to face her as she’d done for him. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d dance outside of your bedroom window until you came out to kiss me.”

  She cooed, her eyes glinting like ice chips. She sat up in her seat, slipped a hand into the front pocket of her dress and brought out a small black and white photo. In the photo, a suave young man with manly features and slick black hair leaned against a railing overlooking what looked to be The River Thames. He wore a shiny gray suit, dark tie and a brown bowler hat above his square-jawed face; a red pocket square jutted out from his right front pocket. The corners of the photo were crinkled and dog-eared from nostalgic nights under a blanket of stars where dreams blossomed like wild flowers.

  “He’s from London and his name is Reginald Barrington.”

  His brows arched, he said, “You’ve roped yourself a prince, huh?”

  “He’s a prince for now but eventually he’ll be king and he’s promised to make me his queen.” She tucked the photo back into her pocket. “He lives in a tall castle on a hill over–

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Seen what?”

  “His castle.”

  Her face went pale and motionless, making her look as if he’d caught her off guard. She glanced down at the bright-yellow curb, her ears muffled by the wind. A burnt-orange ladybug scuttled across a flattened Styrofoam coffee cup lying flat along the curb before flying toward the northeast corner where MacDonald’s Antiques and L&B’s Books lain.

  “What else did he say?” He asked.

  She blinked, glanced up from the curb and met Norm’s prying gaze. The mixed expression of joy and childish curiosity shifted across her face before the glow returned. He peered over her shoulder toward the northwest corner of town and drummed his fingers nervously against his right thigh.

  Behind her, tree shadows spilled along the carpets of sunlight spread along the curbs and sidewalks along Hope Street. The old clock tower rose in the distance, its shingled green steeple looking dark and ominous in the clear blue sky.

  “He said he loved me with every beat of his heart and that one day.” She sighed. “He would take me for his bride. He has twenty servants, fourteen bedrooms with their own bathrooms and a kitchen with the finest chefs from France.”

  Norm whistled and said, “Damn, girl. I don’t think you can get any fancier than that.”

  “He just wants what’s best for me.”

  As Dawn twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger and glanced up at the early-morning sky, Norm glanced toward the sea of faces still peering out at him from inside the café. Hugh Rainey had taken the stool near the front window, gave Norm a lopsided sneer and spun back around to take a sip of his coffee. Lizzie glided across the window, grasping a coffee carafe in one hand and flashing a strange hand signal with the other.

  From where he was sitting, it resembled the “Hook ‘Em Horns” symbol he’d seen on television back when he actually cared about college football (he couldn’t give half a crap about basketball, college or pro) only she’d flashed it in a sideways gesture. After close inspection, he’d felt so stupid for not knowing what she meant but his mind was a little foggy on account of not having his morning coffee.

  “I’d have to invite you over for dinner sometime, Sheriff.” She said, thumbing his left shoulder. “I’ll take you on a tour of his I mean our mansion and then take you around London in a horse-drawn carriage and show you–”

  A bell rang out across the street, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Lizzie, Hugh Rainey and a middle-aged bald man in dirt-stained work clothes stepped out of the café one at a time; Norm knew the bald man was Jacob Crandall, owner of a little general store on the southwest corner of the square called (what else) Crandall’s Corner. It wasn’t how they were acting that aroused Norm’s attention but it was because of where they were looking.

  “What time did he say he was coming?”

  “He’s not coming.” She nodded. “He’s sent me a bus tic–”

  A loud grumbling sound seeped into the town square, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Her face and brows creased in confusion, they glanced in the same direction that Lizzie and the others had done a little while ago.

  A lime-green pickup truck appeared from around the corner, its front windshield bathed in a screen of twilight and shadow. It stopped between a red Subaru and a white Honda and screeched to a halt, tainting the air with the stench of burnt rubber. The engine was left idling as thick white clouds of exhaust spewed out from a rusted metal tailpipe and dissipated in thin air. Norm heard a second bell, followed by another and then another until it was all he could hear.

  Mike Danson (a tall broad-shouldered man in a plaid shirt and jeans) appeared out of Danson’s Motel of course and listened for the driver-side door to open; Lyle Camp stepped out from his barber shop on the corner of H
ope Street, the open neckline of his long white coat exposing a V-shaped sliver of a light blue shirt and red tie; Susanne Tripp stepped out of Pratt’s Photos in a peach blouse and black slacks, her long blonde hair stirring lazily in the breeze. Other proprietors and their customers stepped onto the town square and stared at them from a safe but respectable distance. A few townspeople, the ones who made the long drive from here to either Memphis or Greeneville to make a decent wage, joined in the noose of quizzical stares flooding the town square; a few of them traded whispers amongst themselves. A group of teenage boys sped past the front of the crowd and skidded to a stop, their tires leaving crescent black marks in the asphalt and looked on with both awe and curiosity on their faces.

  Norm slipped his gray ten-gallon off his head and wiped the film of sweat from his brow with his right arm. He heard the distinct sound of hurried footsteps shuffling across the hot gray tarmac and placed his hat back on his head. A figure appeared from his left, its tall brawny build blotting out the bright golden rays of the new-risen sun glinting off Dawn’s rings and Norm’s badge like a chrome bumper.

  “Mornin’, sheriff.”

  “Mornin, Cooter.”

  He tilted his head to one side and gazed up at a tall middle-aged man wearing jeans, muddy brown boots, and dark-green coveralls. He had thinning dark hair, coarse brown skin, thick broad shoulders; a net of worry lines bracketed the corners of his basset-hound green eyes and bulbous lips. Norm rose up from the bench and stretched until he could hear his joints pop and crackle like bubble wrap and relaxed in time to shake Cooter’s hand.

  After the two men exchanged a hushed conversation, Dawn said, “What the hell are you doing here, bro?”

  Cooter closed his eyes, shook his head and sighed. He opened them and stared down at his sister with a heavy, morose expression on his face. Norm was familiar with that look, as was everybody else in Madisonville; the poor sombitch’s father had pulled him out of bed to fetch her and bring her back.