Something's Not Right With Lucy

24

CHAPTER 1

The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the little girl’s bicycle as she rode onto the Campbell’s property. The rear wheel’s wobbling made it difficult to maintain steadiness, but the real threat to her balance was her feet slipping from the pedals. Fright, not fatigue, had transformed her legs into jelly. Her classmates had warned her that the old man was scary; they called him the Bike Boogeyman.

Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid.

Carol Anne had not planned to arrive alone. Her mother had left early for her second job, and her best friend, Sarah, was ill. With no other options, she gripped the handlebars tighter and pressed ahead.

The worn tire had deflated, forcing her to push her bicycle the remaining distance to the garage. Two girls, in a nearby yard, bounced a vinyl ball. Their carefree laughter indicated no fear of the Boogeyman.

Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid.

She passed a bungalow with random patches of white paint clinging to the gray weathered siding. The windows, framed with faded-green shutters, stared outwardly like a pair of lifeless eyes. If not for the porch light burning needlessly in the daylight, she would have assumed the house was vacant.

She poked her head into the open garage door. Hey.

The cluttered interior surprised her. Automobile and bicycle parts lay scattered among red gas cans. A steel workbench, partially hidden under piles of greasy rags, lined the east wall. A commercial-grade ceiling light, with neglected, burned-out bulbs, cast shadows of coldness upon the walls. An old man rested in a tattered chair in the corner. A wisp of cigarette smoke encircled his head like a spectral halo.

Hey, you, she repeated.

Al Campbell glanced at a child in the doorway. The contrast of sunlight against the dimness of the shop’s interior made it impossible for him to identify the form as a boy or a girl. Hey, what?

He tossed the magazine upon the workbench. Acrid vapors escaped from the white rings of perspiration etched into the fabric of his shirt. His matching trousers, embedded with grease, added a stiffness to his gait. What the hell you want?

Carol Anne jumped and she crashed her bicycle, scraping a deep gash across her foot. The old man’s yelling frightened her more than the blood seeping into her sandal.

My bike. The tire—

Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid.

He crushed his cigarette with his worn black boot and hacked a long, wet cough. Where is it?

Carol Anne pointed. The Bike Boogeyman stunk like boiled cabbage. She pinched her nose as he inspected the bicycle’s condition.

Needs an inner tube. C’mere while I find one.

She followed his rancid odor but remained close to the door. The old mechanic rummaged through three boxes at his workbench until he found the proper-sized tube.

Here’s one.

He removed the tire and replaced the tube, as he had done thousands of times. Carol Anne stepped forward as he swung the frame into an upright position. He reached into his soiled shirt pocket for a cigarette. With a crusty handkerchief, he wiped sweat from his temples.

Got money?

She stared at the congealing blood on her foot.

Got money?

Not afraid. Not afraid. Not afraid.

Forgot.

Well, I sure as hell don’t work for free, ya know.

The eight-year-old tugged at her shirt, wringing the sweat from her hands into the fabric.

Bring a buck-fifty tomorrow, ya hear me?

The old man squeezed her buttocks as he helped her onto the bike. Carol Anne ignored his wink. She stood high on the pedals, forcing them to speed away.

Well, there goes a dollar and half I’ll never see.

The bulge in Al’s trousers had vanished, disappearing faster than the little girl in her mad dash to escape. Why did he even bother to offer mechanical repair services in his retirement? The few dollars he charged customers had barely covered his birdseed expense.

Shit, my birds.

The girl’s interruption had caused him to delay the daily feeding. The blue jays were his favorites; the blackbirds he only tolerated because they were too stubborn to shoo away. His grandfather had called the sparrows, bums––fortunate to eat the crumbs.

Al maneuvered his way down the narrow path to his favorite corner of the garage. He hid his magazine, Naughty Nymphs, in the workbench bottom drawer. The bag of birdseed was nearly empty.

Greedy bastards’ll be eating bread if they keep this shit up, he said as he scooped out seed using a dented coffee can.

The birdfeeder’s design was simple: a wire fastened the eight-inch-square plywood base to the tree; the one-inch wooden lip nailed onto the perimeter contained the seeds until the dirty blackbirds kicked them onto the ground. Al had constructed it in the same fashion as the one his grandfather, Reverend Joe, had taught him to build when he had been six-years-old.

They had spent an entire afternoon assembling the feeder. Al’s love of tools began with his grandfather’s lessons. Reverend Joe had taught Al to hammer and saw while he shared his knowledge of birds. Al had been a captive audience. His grandfather’s lessons about birds had been more interesting to Al than listening to the preacher’s sermons.

Reverend Joe had praised Al’s workmanship skills while ignoring the crookedness of the platform fastened together with bent nails. His grandfather had concluded the project was not complete without a coat of paint. Al’s chest had protruded with a fleeting sense of importance when Reverend Joe allowed him to select the color. They had placed the feeder upon newspaper sheets on the picnic table to dry. Reverend Joe hugged Al before leaving to work at the church, promising to return the next day to hang the feeder.

Al’s excitement to display his project was short lived when his drunken father’s cursing awoke him. What the fuck’s this mess on my table?

Sixty years later, Al could still recite his father’s slurred words. Sixty years later, the image of his father hurling his project into the burning barrel and lighting it had never faded. When Al had complained to Reverend Joe about the destruction, his grandfather’s Christian tongue forbade him to comment on his son’s behavior. Instead, Reverend Joe had offered the youngster a lesson about forgiveness.

Al had contemplated the concept of absolution. Reconstructing the project would allow him to forgive and forget. However, the opportunity to ask his grandfather to build a second feeder with him had been seized from Al. Three days later, his father, while drunk––wasn’t he always?––slammed his car into a telephone pole, killing himself and Reverend Joe.

Al poured a small mound of seed onto the platform. He chuckled as the blue jays mobbed a robin and drove it away. Blue jays had an unforgiving manner that impressed Al: they survived without practicing useless Bible talk.

Shouting and laughter arose from the next yard past the Wilson’s. Al’s granddaughters ran in circles chasing a ball.

Goddamn kids, make more racket than the jays do.

He returned to the stillness of his garage to smoke and resume reading.

Daisy tossed the ball to her older sister. Who’s that girl?

Lucy squinted at the girl pedaling from their grandfather’s driveway. The girl’s long blonde braid rose and fell, flogging her back with each determined pump of her feet. She crouched to the frame and spun the pedals into a blur. Her concentration guaranteed a first-place win in this one-person race.

The ball thumped against Lucy’s chest before resting at her feet. Don’t know. She shrugged. Maybe she’s in Miss Winton’s class?

Her riding real fast.

Lucy kicked the ball toward Daisy. Tired of playing catch, Daisy. Gonna look for Margie.

Daisy planted her hands on her hips. "Aw, she shouted as her sister walked away. Go find your dumb cat, then."

Daisy plummeted the vinyl ball. In her frustration, she misjudged the force and propelled the ball upward, smacking her nose. She kicked the ball and walked to the trailer house.

Lucy Campbell had worn her favorite shirt––the blue one with the white kitten––for four days. Her fascination with cats had not ended with her wardrobe. The school library cards had recorded her obsession as she checked out every available book about felines. The photos in the books above her reading level captivated her; she had memorized the simple storylines in the beginners’ books.

For weeks before her seventh birthday, she had announced to anyone who would listen that the only gift she wanted was a cat to love. Lucy and Daisy had spent many late nights in their shared bed choosing the perfect name for their yet-to-be-seen pet. Although Daisy’s choices had differed depending upon her mood, Lucy’s decision had never faltered. She had chosen Margie.

Margie Dixon had been the playground monitor at Franklin Elementary until her retirement last year. She had spent many recess periods shielding Lucy from her classmates’ cruel taunts. When the school year ended, Margie hugged Lucy and told her to be good. Lucy had buried her head against Margie’s bosom in a tight embrace as her guardian’s rose-scented perfume soothed Lucy’s tears for the final time.

Lucy’s incessant begging for a kitten had droned into her mother’s ears. The whining looped within Doreen’s head, like hated song lyrics repeating the same verse.

I’m telling you for the hundredth damn time, Lucy. Cats are dirty, sneaky animals. Not gonna have one around.

But Mommy, I’ll take care of it. Promise.

"There is no but Mommy. Goddamnit! I’m sick of hearing about cats."

Doreen tapped her cigarette pack into her palm. Her daughter’s plea had pierced her skull, like the loud buzzing activity from a hornet nest. The hum intensified until Doreen could no longer tolerate the vibration. Much like an agitated insect, Doreen would sting when provoked. She ripped the cellophane from the pack and tossed it to the floor. Cupping her hands, she lit the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

After throwing her lighter among a stack of dirty dishes on the counter, she faced Lucy. "If I ever hear the word cat again, there will never be a cat. You hear me? She wrapped her fingers around Lucy’s arm and pulled her daughter close to her face. Doreen’s warm breath accented each word. Do you hear me?"

Lucy nodded. Doreen loosened her hold without injury this time. The hornets calmed to their hibernated state. Lucy had been fortunate to escape the sting. She dared not mention a cat again.

A few days prior to Lucy’s birthday, the sisters had been riding their bicycles when Dan returned from town. As he exited his truck, he motioned for his daughters to gather around him. They leapt from their bicycles and hugged his legs. From a cardboard box, he withdrew a tiny ball of orange and black fur.

Happy birthday, Lucy.

"Aw, look. She’s mine, really?"

Lucy beamed a smile at her father, the hero. Not only had he granted the birthday wish, he had defied her mother. He had risked smashing the hornet nest.

Daisy jutted her bottom lip. Where’s mine?

You can share, honey, Dan said. Lucy, you’ll share, right?

Lucy giggled as she carefully handed her gift to Daisy. Daisy snuggled the kitten to her cheek and whispered, Hi, Margie.

As they approached the trailer, Daisy declared Margie already loved them and her new home.

If I ever hear the word cat again, there will never be a cat.

Lucy frowned. Mommy will be mad. She reached for her father’s hand and braced herself for the predicted storm.

Dan squeezed her fingers. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.

Doreen reached into the upper cabinet for a new pack of Brandts when movement outside the window captured her attention. The kitten Daisy cuddled proved Dan had challenged her authority. The looming earthquake rumbled. She yanked open the door as Dan reached for the knob. He stumbled forward as the girls sought refuge behind him.

Doreen pointed. What the hell’s that?

She threw her Brandts at Dan’s chest. He crushed the pack and flung it to the floor.

Just a cat for the girls.

He walked past her to grab a beer. Putting distance between himself and her seething stare was the best method to avoid pouring gas onto the fire of her unjustified fits. He needed to conserve his strength for the major battles.

I don’t want that damn dirty thing around me, and I’m not taking care of it. Do you understand me? Do you all fuckin’ understand? Get it outside where it belongs. Jesus fuck, out of my sight, now!

Her shrieking continued while she searched the cabinet for a new pack of cigarettes. Gripping her lighter and Brandts, she marched to her bedroom. The slamming of the door signaled the final exclamation point of her anger.

The earthquake tremor smoldered with minimal damage. Margie had remained with Lucy. The girls kept her outside during the day and tucked into their bed at night. Dan had smashed the hornet nest, but the persistent buzzing continued in the distance.

The hive quieted, awaiting its next disturbance.

CHAPTER 2

The sunrays filtering through the blind slats of the window transposed alternating dark and light bands across Lucy’s face. The light’s intensity roused her, and she kicked off the unnecessary blanket twisted around her legs. The August heat had dissipated the scant dew from the scorched landscape. Dryness had parched Lucy’s throat each morning since the drought began in late June.

The frustrated farmers spent their idle time at Delores’s Diner drinking coffee while complaining about the futile season, in which they had no control. The drought of ’75 had destroyed the corn and soybean fields, threatening the existence of Endover: population 382.

The locals referred to Greenville, located fifteen miles north of Endover, as going to town. Greenville provided shopping for groceries, hardware, and other necessities. The business district consisted of a trucking company, a grain elevator, and a car dealership. Lucy attended Franklin Elementary in Greenville. During the summer break, the girls rarely left their small yard in Endover.

Lucy hesitated before entering the kitchen. The hornets swarmed in repetitive circles, prepared for battle.

Just quit your goddamn whining and eat!

Daisy scowled at her mother and returned to pouting over her cereal bowl. Want the real Fruity Rings.

The Fruity Rings commercial had featured a rainbow on the box as a prancing unicorn promised children a truly tuity-fruity breakfast.

Lucy poured a bowlful of Citrus Circles from the large cellophane bag. Although the loops bore the similar bright hues of Fruity Rings, the flavor offered no hint of fruit. The bag contained the gritty texture of cornmeal mashed into circular shapes.

Daisy threw her spoon onto the table. Not the same kind. Yucky.

Daisy instinctively ducked as Doreen raised her hand. Doreen’s ring snagged in the tangles of her daughter’s hair, forcing her to yank her fingers free. While Daisy rubbed the sore patch, her mother plucked hairs from the stone’s prongs.

Eat, damn it. It’s better than nothing at all.

Lucy had expected to hear her mother’s retort. The phrase was Doreen’s one-size-fits-all response. While their classmates bought new clothing at the start of the school year, the Campbell sisters’ wardrobes were purchased at the Thrifty New To You. With the exception of Christmas, they rarely received a new toy. Their few possessions were castaways from bored, privileged girls in pursuit of their next impulsive whim. Lucy and Daisy had never complained; better than nothing at all was the only way of life they had experienced.

The slap did not deter Daisy. Doreen offered blows as regularly as other mothers extended hugs. Daisy whispered to Lucy with her hands cupped around her lips. Hate these.

Lucy looked beyond her sister to the opposite end of the kitchen. Doreen yawned and rubbed away smeared mascara as she searched for a clean coffee cup. The hornets had been disturbed once; it was never wise to strike the hive a second time.

Lucy distracted Daisy. Daddy said we can play in the sprinkler today.

Doreen rinsed a cup and struck a match to her cigarette. Good. Eat and get the hell outside.

Daisy shoved the bowl of soggy cereal to the table’s center. She and Lucy raced to find their swimming suits.

Ungrateful brats. Doreen sampled Daisy’s cereal and wrinkled her nose. "Jesus, these do taste like shit."

She threw the bowl into the sink. Refilling her cup, she settled on the couch to watch television while she wrote a shopping list that did not include Fruity Rings.

The sisters screeched as they sprinted through the cold spray. Laughter arose from the playful pushing and shoving as each girl dared the other to plunge her face into the water jets. The pair resembled two frisky otters as they wrestled and danced in the sprinkler’s rotating arc.

Their carefree frolicking ended abruptly, like a soap bubble bursting upon a sidewalk, when Doreen’s shrill voice interrupted the children’s play. Get on over to Al’s. Going to town with Jenny. Hurry, now.

Like a silent marionette, Lucy shut off the faucet. There was no use in tempting the hornets by begging for a few more minutes. Playing in the sprinkler for fifteen minutes had been better than nothing at all. Hanging their wet heads in defeat, they trudged to their grandfather’s house.

Daisy protested. Don’t wanna.

"Shh! Mommy might hear you. Lucy’s face brightened. Let’s hide."

The girls dashed behind the lilacs in the Wilson’s backyard. The bushes had remained the only border between Al’s property and the neighbor’s after the deteriorating fence had been razed.

As they knelt, they heard Al shouting. Goddamn you, cat. Git! Git out of here.

The second rock he threw smacked the cat’s spine. Margie yelped and ran to Lucy. The pounding of Al’s boots ended when he discovered the trio.

Get your little asses up here where ya belong and don’t bring that damn cat with ya.

Lucy whispered to Margie to run home. Joining hands, the sisters followed Al, like two detained prisoners who had committed no crime.

Wanna swim, Daisy said.

Lucy pointed to the oval horse-watering tank. Although it was rusty and most of the time filled with stale rainwater, Al had allowed them to splash in it. Daisy broke away from her sister and dashed to the tank.

Dumb. No water.

When’s the last time it’s rained, little girl?

Al located the garden hose hidden in the endless parade of junk. He dropped it over the tank’s rim and turned on the spigot. Swim in there as long as ya got your suit on at ten in the morning, for Christ sakes. Al extended his arm to prevent Lucy from joining her sister. You, you c’mere to the shop. Gonna have a little chat ’bout that damn cat killin’ my jays.

The friction of Al’s elbows rubbing against his shirt released a fog of visible ammonia in the heat. Lucy covered her nose in a prayer-like pose as she followed him to the garage that held age-old secrets. She glanced over her shoulder at Daisy. Lucy’s silent plea for rescue went unnoticed as her sister fidgeted with the hose.

Hurry up!

Lucy jumped. She had once overheard her father describing to his friends a childhood whipping Al had delivered to Dan for simply crying. After witnessing her grandfather throwing rocks at Margie, she respected his temper. She sucked her bottom lip and obeyed him.

Al hunkered into his chair. C’mon over here. That damn cat’s nothin’ but trouble.

But, Lucy stammered. Margie. Margie’s not mean.

Tearing the goddamn heads off my blue jays ain’t mean? Maybe ya should clean up the bloody messes. Would ya like that, huh?

The horrific image of Margie shredding birds stunned Lucy. Cats killed birds; she had read that fact in the library books. But, Margie? Not her Margie. She covered her face as tears flowed between her fingers and dripped off her chin.

Well, c’mere now. Al swirled her. Reaching from her backside, he lifted her onto his lap. Quit your cryin’. Just keep that damn cat out of my yard, ’sall.

Lucy shifted her weight. She did not expect comfort from her grandfather. Instead, her face reddened with embarrassment as he caressed her and rocked. Back and forth, back and forth. The heat rising from his stained shirt stung her nostrils.

He adjusted his position. Now, now.

Her grandfather’s whispering did nothing to quiet the pulsating rush against her eardrums. Why was he repeating the same words? He leaned to his left and raised her a few inches. Tugging, tugging…his knuckles brushed her backside. Was that a zipper? He lowered her. Something jabbed at her suit, something that had not been there a moment ago.

Now, now. It’s okay.

What was okay?

He had ordered her to his chair to scold her. He had angrily challenged her while he ground his fist into his palm, but now he cradled her. She tasted fear, chaos, and confusion as he rocked and rocked.

Al grasped her knees with his rough, calloused hands. His constant whispering blew damp, pungent breath on Lucy’s nape. She shivered as goosebumps erupted over her entire body, except for that ugly, warm patch searing into her neck. Her breath escaped in short, quick puffs. Her grandfather’s body tensed, pushing her forward. He moaned and exhaled a reek of coffee and stale cigarettes.

Another odor mingled with his rotted breath, but Lucy could not name it. Her stomach convulsed in tight spasms, like a twisted wet rag wrung until it was dry. Rubbing her temples increased the spinning dizziness instead of relieving the lightheadedness. She swayed to the side of the chair when Al released his grip.

He shoved Lucy from his lap. Go play with your sister. Git all the way in the water and wash that grease off ya.

Grease? That was my punishment?

Turning away, he wiped himself with his handkerchief before tucking his shirt into his trousers. Lucy fled from the shadowy garage that now possessed a new secret.

Where were you? Daisy asked.

In the garage. Lucy swallowed hard. With Grandpa.

Lucy climbed into the tank and sank deep into