Liar's Bench (22 page)

I
struggled to come fully awake, willing myself to focus on my name.

“Mudas. Mudas, wake up. C'mon now . . . wake up, Mudas!” His words drummed off me.

Two light smacks on my cheeks and my lids flew open to see Bobby's eyes full of fear. His face was blossomed with it, so full-mooned it frightened me.

I bolted upright. A deafening chorus of insects and the grating cries of squabbling blackbirds pummeled my brain. I shut my eyes and clamped my hands over my ears. The smell of burnt rubber and oil rode the breeze. A blast of radio static echoed around the hill, bass thrumming before abruptly shutting itself off.

I groaned.

Bobby embraced me. “I thought I'd lost you, Mudas. You scared the crap outta me!” His heart thundered against mine. “Here, let's take a look at you.” He inspected my face.

“Ouch . . . A headache from hitting the wheel, I think.” I rubbed my temples and rose to my knees.

“Can you stand?” Bobby winced as he eased me up onto my feet. A trickle of blood from his forehead slid down toward his eye.

“Uh-huh.” I swayed and grabbed his arm. “You okay, Bobby? I couldn't find you. Thought I heard you once, but then everything went black.”

“Yeah, I crawled out of the car after you did.” He grimaced. “Just a few scratches. Busted my forehead a bit.” He wiped his blood-speckled face onto his sleeve. He clutched his side. “Ribs are a little sore from being tossed around.”

“Ribs? Any of them broke?”

“Doesn't feel like they're cracked, probably bruised.” Bobby took a slow breath. “It's bad that you popped that hill flying, but good that we ended up over here behind this brush. McGee probably flew right past us and is running around the county chasing a phantom car.”

“I should've taken Gib's cornfield when I had the chance.”

“We'd likely be in worse shape than we are now. Ol' man Gib would've skinned us alive if we so much as snapped a single stalk.”

I let out a laugh, but it caught in my throat. I buried my face in my hands and sank to the grass. Bobby put his hand on my back, but it felt smothering, like he was taking up all my air.

“Please . . .” I shook my head, my face still in his hands. “Please go away, just give me a minute,” I begged. Bobby moved over to the bluff in silence. Hugging my knees to my chest, I buried my face in their crook.

My body was racked with horrors, my gut hollowed. Thoughts of Bobby dead formed a grim carousal looping in my brain, squeaking:
I could have killed Bobby. I could have killed him
.
Killed him.
I could not stand to lose anyone else.

A spontaneous combustion lit my heart aflame, rewired my brain, and sent a singular message through my veins: I loved him. Yes, I was knee-knocking, heart-aching, scent-sense full of love for that boy. For Bobby. It was one of those clarifying moments, when life comes into focus and you see everything exactly how it is and how it ought to be. And just like that, I knew. Plain as day.

After a spell, Bobby came over and knelt down in front of me.

“Hey,” he whispered, tugging gently on the hem of my bell-bottoms. “Hey, I should've driven, but there wasn't time. I'm sorry I made you do that. I just, I knew you'd driven this road a million times practicing in your dad's car. And it's a good shortcut, 'cause it's pretty much empty.”

I wiped my face on my sleeve.

“Hey, look at me.” Bobby lifted my chin. “At that speed, I don't know any boy who could've taken Satan's Corner any better than you—Hell's bells, Mudas, I dunno about you, but I do believe that when you tightened that curve, I saw an angel flashing a Come-to-Jesus sign.” He glided his thumb across my wet cheeks.

“Yeah?”

“Sure enough,” Bobby soothed.

“I could've killed you.”

“I'm fine.” He thumped his chest, grinning. “And you're fine. Got a bit of concrete rash going on, but hey, you're okay. I'm okay.” He swept back my hair and examined my head. “How you feelin' now? Head okay?”

“Yeah,” I moaned. “I only see two of you; your third just walked away.”

“Good, then give us a kiss, both of us.”

I raised a brow and lightly kissed the air beside each cheek. Bobby chuckled.

“Listen, Bobby, I want you to know how much it means to me, everything you're doing to help out. Putting me up at your Gramps' . . . it's—it's really cool of you.”

“Aw, c'mon, Mudas. You're making me blush,” he said.

“Yeah, well. I just thought . . .”

“I know. I also know I'm never going to leave you.” He smiled. “Listen, the car's got a few dings, a busted side window,” he said. “But I think it'll be okay. . . . It'll need to be towed back up to the road, though. And McGee'll likely realize soon enough that we didn't take the rest of the hill and retrace his steps back along this stretch to make sure we didn't pull off onto another road. So we'd best wait, maybe a half hour? Then I can climb up the embankment and try to flag somebody down.”

I took a seat in the shade of a tall bush to escape the heat.

Bobby walked over to the car. He pulled out the Mason jar and stashed it inside the trunk. “Hey, Mudas”—he pointed to my jeans—“you wanna put the senator's receipt inside the diary?” He held the trunk lid open.

“Yeah, can't lose this,” I said, patting my jeans, my pocket half-ripped and dangling. I gave him the paper.

Bobby put it with the journal and slammed the trunk shut, then fished out the keys from his pocket again. “Oh . . . Saw some wire in there. Maybe I can hook the muffler back on.”

The trunk latch must've frozen because Bobby tried four times to unlock it, before giving up. He checked out the engine, radiator, and hoses. Hopping inside the Mustang, he turned the key. The engine cranked easily. The radio blasted Ike and Tina Turner's “Proud Mary.” Inspired, he got out and unsuccessfully tried to rock the Mustang out of its rut.

Having no luck, Bobby climbed up the bank's edge. After about three minutes of alternating between standing, pacing, and crouching, he jumped up, waving both hands in the air. He hollered over his shoulder, “Someone's coming in a truck.”

I dusted off my jeans and stood.

Then Bobby yelled out something I couldn't understand and slid sideways down the hill, arms raised in the air. He grabbed my hand, and muttered, “It's the ol' man!”

“Huh?” I look up at him puzzled.

“Just don't say anything,” he cautioned.

“Who—”

The rumble of a loud engine on the other side of the bluff jerked us apart. A door banged shut. My body grew cold and my teeth chattered in anticipation. I took one step back and wrapped myself in a hug.

“Bobby?”

“Shh.”

The sound of footsteps crunching on gravel got closer. With my heart ramming against my chest, I cupped my hands to shield against the sun's glare and looked up toward the road.

Old man Harper stood there, fists jabbed into the sides of his stained union suit, peering down over the slope. “Passed by and heard jungle music bangin' 'round the hill . . .”

“Mr. . . . Mr. Harper—” I choked, staggering a few steps back. “Radio's shorted—”

“Well, now, whatta we have here? Looks like that boy's done gone an' wrecked yore car, Miz Muddy. Tut, tut . . . now why'd ya go an' do something like that, boy?”

Bobby moved in and stepped protectively in front of me. “It's
Bobby,
my name's Bobby. And we swerved—”

Mr. Harper kicked his steel-toe boot into the ground and spit a stream of saliva out to his side. He cupped his hand to his huge cauliflowered ear. “Whassat I hear? Why, it's an Injun whoop and a nigga's whine makin' my head all bumfuzzeled.”

He spit toward Bobby and pointed. “Boy, iffin' yore talkin' to me, ya best be addressin' me as Mister. Ya hear me, BOY?” Harper boomed, then turned on his heels and stomped away. “I done warned ya twice!”

I fumbled for Bobby's hand. He straightened himself upright, waiting. A door creaked open, followed by a slam.

Mr. Harper ambled back over to the ravine's perch, towering above us, a mere ten feet away, if that. He raised the ol' Slugger that he always kept fastened to his truck's gun rack, shook it at Bobby before thumping it on the ground.

“You disrespectin' me again, boy?” Harper leaned on the bat, a blob of belly flesh jiggling over the knob. He braced himself against the barrel of the Louisville Slugger, palms pressed tight, swaying like an ol' corn snake, fat with mice.

“Prick,” Bobby tossed the word over my shoulder.

“Boy,” Mr. Harper said, “I will take this sweet spot an' send you flyn' to Nigga Hill iffin' ya ever talks to me like that again.” He cocked his head. “You thinkin' yore special coz ya lived in the big city, huh?” He picked up the bat and swung it in front of him. “Actin' all uppity to us white folks. Ruttin' after a white gal. . . . You best learn yore place in Peckinpaw, boy, or you're gonna find yoreself hanging from a Cee-garh tree one of these days.”

I gasped.

Bobby squeezed my hand.

“Miz Muddy, ya let go of that Injun nigga's hand right now. An' ya get yore skinny white ass right on up here. Righ' here, righ' now!” He thumped the bat on the ground. “I'm takin' ya home to yore daddy.”

“I'm seeing Mudas home,” Bobby yelled.

“Boy, ya-can-jus'-kiss-my-big-red-Kentucky-Fried-Chicken-ass! Ya hear me, boy?” Ol' man Harper wrapped his meaty hand around the cloth grip of the bat, flexed his fingers, and tightened.

I took a step back.

A vein popped up on Mr. Harper's neck and his sweaty face turned a checkered, ruddy hue.

“Now git on up here, Miz Muddy, 'fore I whup that boy. That what ya want?”

I thought of the catalpa tree in Frannie's cemetery. The deep burrows of hand-carved coward notches stepladdering up the murky old bark.

I snuck a peek at Bobby. He answered back, shaking his head, and mouthing,
Run!

My brain warned me to run, but my heart said that, if I did, I could lose Bobby.

Mr. Harper inched up to the edge of the ravine.

I shuddered.

“Ya want me to whup him?” he thundered.

I took a step toward Mr. Harper.

“
N
uh-uh.” Mr. Harper wagged his finger. “Ya bring me that pony's key, gal. That boy's gonna hoof it back to Nigga Hill.”

Bobby reached for my shirttail. I shot him a warning look, then walked over to my car to grab the key. “Bobby,” I whispered over my shoulder, “I can't watch him take a bat to you. If I don't let him take me home to Daddy, he'll find you and whup you—if not today, it'll be tomorrow or another. I can't let him do that.”

We stopped in our tracks. Another car door slammed above us on the road.

“Daddy,” I whispered to Bobby.

“Git on up here wid that key, girl.” Harper cracked the bat against rock.

“Yessir,” I said, praying I was right. Raising the key to Harper, I brushed past Bobby, sweeping a feathered touch across his hand. I climbed up the slope, leaving scree and clumps of mud tumbling down behind me.

Bobby was close behind.

When I reached the top of the gully, I found McGee's eyes pinned to mine. His jaw cut cold and a meanness climbed out. Another man stood by a faded Buick, rope in hand. McGee jerked me up by my arm and shoved me into Mr. Harper.

Ol' man Harper wrapped his arm around my neck and locked me to him. Bobby yelled out and took a step forward. Harper tossed McGee my keys and raised the bat over my head.

Bobby hesitated and McGee's man latched on to Bobby's arm and twisted it behind his back, shoving Bobby's face onto the trunk.

McGee trailed down the embankment. I heard my pony's doors open and slam, and things being tossed out. Then I heard him cursing and kicking at it.

When he came back up, McGee shook his head to Harper and whispered something in his ear. In the distance I heard an approaching car.

McGee and his men huddled in front of us, blocking, as the car drove past. Like most, the driver tooted a friendly honk, while McGee waved back.

“Let me go,” I spit, struggling against Harper's grip. He dug into my flesh, pinching bone.

“Let her go!” Bobby yelled. “Bastard!” McGee's man punched him in the gut, silencing his curses.

After they were sure the car had disappeared around the bend, Harper opened his truck door and shoved me toward it. I screamed out again, and McGee whipped out his gun and pointed it at Bobby.

“You best go on home, Muddy Summers, or this boy's gonna be getting more than a whipping,” McGee bit.

Bobby stretched his head off the trunk and hollered, “No.”

“Boy's got to have his whipping,” McGee said. “You get along, or you're gonna make it messier. You want that? Ol' Harper will take good care of you.” McGee walked over to Bobby and waved his gun overhead. “Go on and get.”

Harper pushed me into the cab of his truck. “Git up there.” Biting back tears, I jerked off his grip and climbed in.

I stared out the rear window, my chest thumping madly. The man had the rope hooked over Bobby's neck, cinched tight while McGee tied it to the bumper. “Help him, Mr. Harper!” I demanded.

Bobby's shouts and curses rang through the knobs.

“Mr. Harper”—I shook his arm—“Mr. Harper, please don't let them hurt him!”

Harper shrugged me off and started his truck. “Boy's gonna git his whippin', learn his place in 'tucky.”

“My daddy's gonna have a lot to say about this, Mr. Harper,” I said with all the sternness I could muster.

Mr. Harper soured his face and scratched his stubby neck.

“Mr. Harper?”

He pulled onto the road. I twisted my head around and caught a glimpse of Bobby trailing behind the Buick running into the rope that dragged him.

“Mr. Harper, please stop!”

Harper's truck rocked into Satan's Corner with McGee's car trailing.

“Stop!” I screamed out, reaching for the latch on the door. Harper whipped out his arm and slapped me hard across the mouth. He kicked down on the gas. Star-spotted, I looked up at him for a minute and then snapped my head around.

Satan's Corner disappeared.

I couldn't see Bobby anymore.

I looked at Harper, oil droplets stitched into his upper lip, eyes hooded. I turned around again, watching.

After a few minutes, Harper clucked his tongue. “Don't know what ya could possibly be thinking, tramping all over the countryside wid that trash. Hmph.” He wagged his finger in front of my face. “You'd think that after what happened to yore mama, you'd know better.”

I sucked in a breath.

“Iffin' ya live wid trash, ya ends up burnin' like trash. Just. Like. Yore. Mama—”

I shot him an angry look and wiped away a hot tear barreling down my cheek. “Don't you talk about my mama—”

Harper reached over, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked hard. “You watch that mouth of yors, gal,” he snarled. “Lessun, ya wanna end up swinging from a rope, too, like that nigga boyfriend of yors is gonna be.”

I shrieked. He gave another sharp pull to my hair, dragging my head toward his lap.

I pulled back and tried to jerk myself up.

“Ya best learn yore place in this world. Ol' Harper can teach ya. Ain't that right, gal?” He pushed my head toward his crotch, muffling my scream, and dug his knuckles into my neck.

Struggling to breathe, I reached up and clawed the air, finally marking Harper's arm.

He snatched me back up only to slam my face back into him. “Ya gonna mind me, gal?”

I stretched my cramped neck upward. “Let go of me!”

He grabbed the flesh behind my neck, pinched. “Gonna mind?”

My eyes watered from the pain, sharp and tight.

“Answer me, gal!”

I blew out a defeated, “Yes.”

Harper let up on his grip. Shaking, I tried to scoot toward the door.

The truck wobbled into a curve, then Harper straightened it out and pushed down on the pedal, whizzing past the cornfield. He slowed to turn onto McBride Road.

“Why, Miz Muddy, here I am bein' all neighborly-like, takin' ya home an' yore disrespectin' me same as yore boyfriend did.”

“Let me go!” I demanded. “My daddy—”

“Yore daddy,” Harper snorted. He fumbled for the back of my hair, grabbed a fistful, and smashed my face back down onto his lap again, drowning out my cries. “Lil birdie done tol' me yore daddy's over in Nashville today. That birdie also tol' me you an' that no-good Injun nigga were on Mr. McGee's property a'trespassin' yesterday. Ain't that right, gal?”

I tried to lift my head. Harper's powerful hand shoved me further into his sweat-stained mechanic's suit, forcing me to gasp air through my nose.

“Same lil birdie done tol' me, you an' that boy swiped a very 'portant receipt. Ya know sumthin' about that, gal?”

I twisted my head sideways so I could see his face.

He jutted out his chin, screeched out a cock-a-doodle-doo, and laughed maniacally.

Panicked, I witched my fingers toward his face, grazing air. I kicked wildly, busting my knees on the dash.

Harper braked to a snail crawl and used his knee to steer, then yanked me up by my roots. He took his other hand off the steering wheel and backhanded me across the face, his ring cutting into flesh. He curled a fist and struck again. The truck rocked and my head whiplashed against the seat. A sharp light stabbed my eyes and haloed. Warm blood oozed out of my cheek.

“Now,” he sneered, taking the wheel with one hand and grasping for strands of hair with the other, “we're gonna be passing Town Square this minute an' yore gonna keep that head down an' yore mouth where it belongs, or I'm gonna break yore neck an' dump yore body up on Nigga Hill in them woods where nobody'd find ya, understand?” He dug his nails into my scalp, scraping the skin.

I felt the pickup veer alongside the nubs of the shoulder, then jerk back to the center of the road.

Fresh pain shot through as he grabbed another clump of hair and snapped my neck back.

“Ya jus' be real still, hear me now? Ya don't want Daddy to have to buy another pine box, now, do ya?” Spit sprayed out of his mouth.

I swallowed back sobs and forced a nod, then shook my head no.

He turned his face back to the road and raked his fingers through my hair, coiling a bunch of curls into his fist. He gave a hard pull. “Lay down. I said,
down!
” He used his meaty strength, forcing me to comply.

The truck jerked to the left, then straightened.

“Now, when we git to yore house, yore gonna show Ol' Harper where that rooster receipt is, so I don't have to tear up all yore purty rooms. “ 'Cause iffin' ya don't . . . well, I'm a'gonna tear off all yore clothes, gal. Piece by piece.” He yanked up my shirt and smacked his greased lips.

I wriggled hard, twisting my head up. “Let go . . . please, let me go, Mr. Harper.”

He grabbed my neck.

“Such a delicate neck, like yore mama's. Thin an' all, like a reed . . . Wouldn't take but a lil slip to snap.” He dug his nails into my flesh, pinched, then lifted his fingers and strummed them over my neck. “Ya better mind now, ya hear?”

My pulse quickened against his fingers.

“Iffin' ya give me everything I want, I might jus' keep ya around. Ol' Harper could teach ya a lot of things . . . mm-hmm.”

“Mr. Harper, please, no.” I begged. “Please, let me go.
Please
. . . I don't have any receipts. Bobby doesn't either. I don't know what you're talking a—”

“Now ain't that somethin', that's exactly what yore mama said, an' all purty-like, too.”

“Mama?” I cried out. “You—”

His fingers tightened. “One more peep an' I'll snap that neck . . . Snap it! Ya hear?” He pressed into my skin and his voice grew tough and biting. “Jus' like I did yore mama's.” He cracked a smug grin.

I whimpered.

He killed Mama.... He is gonna kill me, too.
I held my breath as long as I could, then gulped down choppy bits of air. I tasted blood. Fighting a wave of dizziness, I tried to draw on my strength to stoke my need for revenge.

Harper slowly released his hold, then ran his calloused hand over my hair, trailing his fingertips across my neck. I felt the truck veer onto the shoulder and hit a huge rut. Harper wrestled it back onto the road.

My muscles tensed.

Choking back my sobs again, I raised my chin slightly, opened my mouth for air. “Don't . . . Don't kill me. Please! Please . . .” I pleaded. “Just let me go, Mr. Harper! I won't tell a soul!”

“That's jus' what yore mama said!”

Harper slowed the truck until it reached a snail's pace. He used his steering knee again as he reached up and unzipped his union suit, exposing himself. I screamed just as he shoved my face into his privates.

The truck hit a pothole, swerved, and settled into a tremble. Then I felt the truck swing out wide and turn left.

He ran his fingers through my hair again. Flexing his fingertips along my head, he shoved my face down farther into him, suffocating me.

“Behave yoreself.”

I clamped my mouth shut and pressed my lips tightly together as I felt him harden beneath my face. I fought back a wave of nausea.

The truck turned right and then cut a sharp left. I felt the familiar mud holes of Summers Road, heard the welcoming crunch of gravel beneath the tires. Straining my neck upward, I recognized the half-broken branch of one of our ol' chinaberry trees—the one with the dangling tire swing—and the same one I'd climbed since I was knee-high.

Home! My heart pumped furiously.

He shoved me back down and relaxed his grip.

I inched my hand up alongside my face and carefully slid my fingers between my chin and Harper's ball sack.

He eased his foot off the gas pedal and moaned. The truck weaved down the road.

I thought of Bobby lowering his head to Harper, all subservient-like. Him being roped like an animal. I held my breath and made myself a promise: I was going to fight. Fight for my life—no matter what happened to me. I would not give up—no matter what.

On the silent count of three, I grabbed hold of him as hard as I could, just like ThommaLyn had shown me to do when I was five years old and horsing around with her four brothers. Never understanding that it could save my life. And never really intending it to cause harm—back then, I'd always let go. But this time I meant it. I wasn't letting go.

I latched on to his balls, scrunching hard, and twisted and pulled them, trying to rip skin. Harper screamed like a banshee and yanked me up by the hair, bending back my neck, almost breaking it. I dug in further, twisting harder than ever. I pulled and turned that awful handful for myself, for Mama, and for baby Genevieve.

Harper's body spasmed with pain. Unable to control the truck, he finally managed to slam on the brakes.

“Turn off the truck, you bastard.” I spat, digging harder, squeezing tighter.

The corners of his mouth contorted and settled into a shocked O, his face drained completely of color.

I tightened my grip. “I said, turn it off!”

The engine died.

Maintaining my iron hold, I locked my eyes to his. I thought about what he'd done to Mama. His hands on her neck. On mine.

Filled with rage, I clamped down my hold on him, turned my head around to line myself up with him just so, and slammed the back of my head into his face. Surprising even myself, I connected. I heard the crunch of small bones and a puff of wilting breath. I turned to find that I'd hit my mark just right—dead center. Splat on the nose.