He reached out and gently stroked my arm. My arm, with the little round burn marks. Mama had said they came from a kitchen accident when I was real young. But she never explained the ones on my stomach and thighs.
Quickly Brady grabbed the other shovel and together we reburied the dragon. I was glad that this time, I got to do it myself instead of watching him and Mama from my bedroom window.
But…
“Brady,” I said, as we were almost finished, “I don’t remember Daddy smoking a pipe. Just cigarettes.”
“He didn’t. The guy who started sniffing around Mama after Daddy…left did. I told her this family would never need any man other than me.”
Brady paused and stared at me hard with an odd kind of smile. The hair on my neck rose.
“You’ll never need anyone other than me. Will you, Mary Ellen?”
\
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, hearing voices in my head. Characters fully developed, telling me their story. On good nights, I get up, grab a pen and paper, and write down what they say. That is how “Nightmare” was born. The thunderstorm. The swing. The cigarette. The southern-gothic feel. It all poured out of me in the middle of the night, a gift from my muse, and now my gift to you. “Nightmare” is the first of five new stories in this collection. I hope you enjoy all the tales in this book as much as I’ve loved writing them.
BON APPÉTIT
Another gust of wind rattled the window frames. I shivered as Jenny pulled the photo album closer and pointed at a wedding snapshot of Dwayne, Larry, and me. Dwayne didn’t have any of the stubble or anger that usually graced his face these days. Grinning widely, like a kid who’d gotten two desserts, he stood in his rented tux with one arm around my bare, freckled shoulders and the other around my brother, Larry’s, broad ones. It was a fitting pose, considering how Dwayne ultimately came between Larry and me. I hadn’t seen my brother in twenty years.
“Look how skinny you were.” Jenny brushed her curly brown hair from her eyes.
I shifted my chair closer to my scarred kitchen table and laughed. “Yep. Those were the days.” Back before Dwayne began hitting me. Before I told Larry about it. Before he nearly beat Dwayne to death and went to prison for it. Hard time up at Macon. Dwayne wouldn’t let me visit him. Ever. At least Larry and I wrote letters, and sometimes he called.
Jenny leaned back, trying to smile, but the corners of her mouth kept tugging down. “I love you, you know.”
My eyes watered. “I love you, too.”
Jenny had been my best friend ever since Dwayne and I moved here to Willacoochee. She lived on a small farm a mile up the road with her husband, four children, and two hound dogs. Nearly every day we were in and out of each other’s kitchens, sharing flour and vegetables and smiles. If I was going to miss anyone, it would be Jenny, though I guess once you’re dead, you can’t miss anyone or anything.
I stood and picked up a ceramic plate off the counter. It had sunflowers on it—Mama’s favorite—just like the ones I grew in my garden. I’d made the plate for Mama for her birthday next month, but that day was never going to come now. “I want you to have this.” I held the plate out to Jenny. “I know how much you like it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Besides Mama, you’re the only one who ever supported my crafts.”
Jenny sniffed as she ran her fingers over the sunflowers, their warmth and brightness a sad reminder of better days. “Dwayne’s a fool, you know.”
Oh, I knew. Early in my marriage, I’d dreamed of opening my own shop and selling my work, but Dwayne had made it clear that was never going to happen. Running a store was too costly, he’d said. Too risky. “You don’t have it in you to make a store succeed, Violet. Now focus on what you’re good at and make me a pie.”
“Have you been able to reach your mother?” Jenny asked, bringing me back to the present.
“I finally got through to Aunt Sarah’s this morning. It’s been so hard with the phone lines being jammed all the time. I’ve only received one call all week.” I leaned against the counter and sighed, grateful that Aunt Sarah had taken Mama in when she got sick, after Dwayne refused to let her live with us. “Mama’s Alzheimer’s has gotten worse. She didn’t even recognize my voice.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so glad I got to see my whole family last week. It makes all this easier.”
Her voice started to break. I hugged her.
“Well, at least you won’t have to worry about cooking any more big Thanksgiving meals,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. But it didn’t work. It’s hard to joke when an enormous comet is set to hit the earth in a few hours, ending all life. That’s how they phrased it on the news last night. Ending all life.
I pulled away and turned on the lights, thankful once again for our generator. It had been getting darker all day. The shadows stretching across the floor made it look more like late evening than mid-afternoon.
Jenny wiped unshed tears from her eyes. “What are you making for your last meal?”
“Steaks. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion. I guess the end of the world qualifies.” I swallowed hard. “And I’m making mashed potatoes with lots of butter, just like Mama used to. Everyone’s always loved them.”
“Especially me.” Jenny patted her stomach. “Well, I guess I better get home. The kids want their favorite oatmeal cookies, and they’re not going to bake themselves. Thanks for giving me the last of your brown sugar.”
“Sure. It’s not like I’ll need it anymore.”
Jenny and I had been sharing more and more food these last few weeks, ever since the government confirmed what the scientists had been saying for months and most of the stores had been picked clean and shut down. It made sense. Who’d want to spend their last days selling stuff when they could be with their families?
Jenny stepped toward the back door.
“Wait.” I grabbed one of three pies I had cooling by the sink. “Take this. I made it for you from the last of my pickings.”
“Blueberry. How can I resist?” Jenny lowered her nose to the lattice crust and breathed in. “Mmmm. I’m sure it will be delicious. You should have opened that bakery like we always talked about.”
That had been another dream of mine. But Dwayne had reminded me I didn’t have that in me either. Too much work, he’d said, for a woman who flits around the garden all day.
I hugged my best friend hard, and then, with a smile and a wave, she was gone.
I took a deep breath and checked my watch. Dwayne would be home soon enough, I realized. I’d best start preparing dinner. I turned on the TV for company. Most of the channels had gone dark weeks ago, but CNN was still running with a limited staff of die-hards who said they’d report to the bitter end.
“More and more people keep coming here to Central Park, joining the thousands who’ve been camping and singing songs,” a reporter stationed in New York City said. “It’s a lot different from the reports we’ve been hearing out of Seattle and L.A., where the riots are ongoing.”
The camera switched back to the blond anchor. “Thanks for that report, Mark. In other news, a warden in Oregon released his prisoners this morning after ninety-nine percent of state employees, including prison guards, failed to report to work, leaving the prisons with no way to supervise or provide food to the inmates. This is the third such report we’ve had this week, following releases in Georgia and West Virginia. All three wardens said it would be inhumane to house prisoners under such conditions.”
Outside, the shutters started slapping against the house, and the wind began