Southern Gothic
#workinprogress
Sister walked down the red dirt road. Her freckle-faced boy ran ahead, then circled back to check on her. “You alright, Mama?” A sleeping baby was pressed tight against her cracked rib. “You’re alright Mama.”
Her lip was busted and her sad eyes black and blue. Alive but submerged, she was drowning under the weight of her pain and brokenness.
The boy picked up a long stick. “Don’t worry momma. I got me a sword,” he said, swinging it wildly, “If Daddy comes around, I’ll kill him, big fat asshole!”
“Don’t cuss, Buddy,” she managed to croak, her voice catching in the back of her throat, dry from dust.
Ahead, in the soft light of morning, the white clapboard house at the end of the road was Sister’s family home and her sanctuary. Old oak trees with gnarled branches lined the dirt road, waved her on, Spanish moss lifting in the breeze. If she could just keep walking.
Buddy dropped his sword and took off running as soon as the house came into view.
“Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack! Come quick.”
Jack Flint sat at the kitchen table, finishing up his breakfast, making sure that everything on his plate came out together. He took his time, tasted his food, and savored each bite of it. He’d already been up for hours and planned on repairing fences in the back pasture when he was done. Methodical by nature, Jack Flint was a deliberate man.
His momma was washing up the breakfast dishes at the sink. Through the window, she saw the boy coming down the road.
“Here comes Buddy running,” she said, “something’s wrong.”
Jack finished the last of his breakfast and pushed his chair away from the table. He gave his mother his empty plate. “Thanks for breakfast, Mama.” Kissing the top of her head, Flint retucked his shirt, straightening his cuffs. “I best go see what this is all about.”
His mother dried her hands on the dishtowel and followed her son out to the porch.
Buddy ran up to his uncle and grabbed his leg.
“Daddy hurt Mama again,” he said. Flint’s jawline tightened. “Come on, Uncle Jack.”
Buddy started pulling his uncle towards the front steps.
“How about a biscuit with Gran’s peach preserves. I bet you’re hungry little man.” Flint nodded to his mother. “Go on inside with your Gran, Buddy. I’ll go get your Mama.”
Sister sat underneath a tree holding very still, her back resting against the trunk. She had to stop, every step she took shot knifing pain through her body.
The white pickup truck rolled to a slow stop. “I’m sorry,” Sister said, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
“Give me the baby.”
Sister handed the infant to her brother. Flint stretched out his other hand and Sister only whimpered once getting back to her feet. He helped her into the truck and gave her the baby to hold.
“What are you going to do?” she whispered as he got behind the wheel.
Flint reached over and patted Sister’s hand. The sight of her beautiful young face bruised and swollen made him choke up. “Don’t you worry now. I’ll take care of it.”
Mama was on the porch waiting for them. Flint handed the baby to her before helping his sister out of the truck.
“Where are you going, son?” Mama asked, knowing full well where he was going, and knowing there was nothing in the world she could do to stop him.
Mama looked down at the innocence in her arms, the child’s eyes blue as a clear blue sky and ancient at the same time. In a rush of emotion, the old woman remembered holding her own babies.
Buddy called from the porch and both of the women turned toward him, walking slowly up the steps to the house.
Passed out drunk on the sofa, Kenny Trotter woke up to the sound of a gun being cocked. Trotter’s hands had been bound together with duct tape. Flint stood above him. “Get up you son of a bitch. We’re going for a ride.”
Trotter, still drunk from the night before, laughed at him. “I ain’t going nowhere. You have lost your mind, son. Put that fucking gun away!”Flint grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling Trotter to his feet. The barrel of the revolver squarely between his shoulders, Flint fast walked him out to his truck.
“Listen, Flint,” Trotter sputtered. “Your sister Mary is all the time asking for it. That woman needs to learn when to keep her mouth shut.”
“Get in,” Flint said, and when Trotter protested, he pistol-whipped him.
Trotter smiled, a wicked smile, a bloodstained predator’s grin, and climbed in the passenger seat.
“Where are we going, Flint? Think you could stop at the liquor store on the way?”
“Like I said,” Flint replied staring off into the distance, “we’re going for a ride.”
Sheriff Caldwell sat behind his big oak desk. He contemplated taking a quick cat nap. He’d just finished the blue-plate special at the June Bug Cafe, sausage gravy and biscuits, and the hum of the cicadas through the open window was making him feel worn slap out.
When Jack Flint knocked on his office door, Caldwell was surprised to see his friend. “ As I live and breathe, look what the cat dragged in. Jack Flint. Now to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit? Ain’t you got work to do?” Caldwell’s voice trailed off, reading the expression on Flint’s face.
“What did Trotter do this time? Mary and the children? Please Lord, tell me they’re safe.”
“They’re safe. Mary’s beat up pretty good. She made it home to Momma’s house.”
“You asked me why I’m here, Sheriff. I’ll tell you why. I finished it. Fact is, Sheriff, Kenny Trotter needed killing.”
Caldwell inhaled slowly. Flint held out both of his hands and Caldwell shook his head.
“No need for the cuffs, son. Walk with me.”