Authors: Elaine Drennon Little
Chapter 21: 1989
Mojo
It was the first week of December, and things were going so good it didn’t seem real.
Danny was doing a lot of Christmas parties, solo stuff, where he made good money and didn’t have to deal with anyone else, and that always made him happy. He’d been practicing a lot, learning actual
Christmas
songs, fancy, jazzy arrangements like you’d hear in the background at Christmas parties on TV. I worked every weekend for the whole month at the Plantation Club, maybe a little more, if I didn’t start showing.
I had three regular housecleaning jobs, two older ladies and Mr. Foster, who didn’t really need that much work done and paid me way too much. I worried about Mr. Foster. He was getting thinner all the time, and took a lot of medicines I didn’t think he wanted me to know about. I guess that’s the reason I kept going back, though there was
the guilt about taking his money for not doing much work. He seemed to want the company, and I really believed he needed to be checked on now and then. Living so far out, all alone, who would be there if something bad happened? We formed a strange and awkward friendship, kind of becoming stand-in relatives.
I knew Danny didn’t want kids; he was too much of a child himself to be any kind of a father. Thirty years old, still playing gigs at pool halls, strip clubs, and dives. Other than the road band that sent him home broke, strung out, and so depressed I was afraid he’d hurt himself, he hadn’t had a real job since he was sixteen, pumping gas.
I worked a lot, but I was pretty good with my money. And as long as Danny had enough to eat, had clean clothes to wear, had plenty of time for his music and could pretty much do whatever else he wanted, he didn’t really notice if I was there or not or how many hours I worked. I’d never told him how much folks paid me for the cleaning jobs.
I knew I could make this work, I knew I could. I’d just been to Albany for my first ever ob-gyn appointment, and I was so excited I could hardly stand it. But that wasn’t all.
I’d figured it all out. After my appointment, I went to a bank, one in Albany, and started me another bank account. I put some baby furniture and things on layaway, too. And whether Danny was ready or not, I would be.
I lifted up the mattress one more time, just to sneak another peek at my special things. A wooly yellow blanket, good for a girl or a boy. A picture of the crib, and chest, and high chair I’d bring home soon.
I thought of the crib set up in the east window, where I could open it and let the baby listen to the crickets, and katydids, and the ol’ Flint River running by our little house on stilts. On the chest I’d set the little cube filled with colorful shapes, the one I knew was part of my history, though I never had the chance to find out how. And over it, I’d hang the picture of Mama and Uncle Cal, young and smiling, so that they’d be there with us, too.
I lifted up my little bank book—five hundred dollars in savings and more to come. I looked at it all one last time, then tucked the bedspread and grabbed my purse. It was time to be at the club; a good tipping night could be a wind-up swing or a car seat.
It was a good night, a Friday, and we were packed ’til after four in the morning. I felt higher than a kite, just thinking about the life I was about to live. I was tired-but-wired as I drove home. I pulled in the driveway, surprised to see Danny’s van at the back. He usually came in later than me.
I hurried up the stairs to see if he was awake. Opening the door, I caught the sickly sweet smell of reefer. The house was wrecked; clothes, books, dishes, everything thrown about like some police search in a crime drama.
“Danny?” I called. “Danny, honey, are you up? What happened in here, babe? You guys musta been partying hearty—” I tried to laugh.
Please, God,
I thought,
don’t let him be mad. Drunk or stoned or passed out—Even—even if he’s with a woman, I can handle it, God. Just don’t let him be—
“MotherfuckingwhoreBITCH!” he screamed as he staggered out from the bedroom. He wore my favorite shirt—the soft, gray denim with the black velvet collar—the one I bought for his birthday. It was untucked and open, held by a single button, his chest hair glistening and his lucky Saint Christopher showing through. He was sweating, his usually-perfect black hair loose, but moist at the temples and hanging in matted clumps. “And just wherethehellavyoubeen, whore?” His words were barely intelligible.
“I’ve been at work, Danny, at the Plantation, you know that, baby,” I tried to explain.
“And how do I know that, bitch? How the hell do I know what you’ve been doing, you lying—” He lunged forward and grabbed me by the neck.
I knew the position well: If I relaxed against the chokehold, I could breathe. If I didn’t fight, he’d simply shove me away in a few minutes. And as wasted as he was, the shove forward might put him on the floor, and out for the night. I could handle it, I just had to think it out and not do anything stupid.
“Just howfuckindumbd’you think I am, bitch? You think you’s gonna pulloneoveron me, slut? Huh? Huh?” His bourbon saliva sprayed across my face.
“I don’t know what you mean, Danny. Honest, I haven’t done anything wrong. Really. And I’m just glad you’re home and we can be together—” I stammered, trying to sound sweet, and normal. Sometimes that worked, too. I could get through this, I knew I could. I concentrated, watching how the breeze through the open window moved the sheer curtains, just barely, but made no difference in the stagnant air filling the room.
I smelled Danny—liquor, and sweat, and hint of spray starch, and something else—the smell of
him
. The way he tasted, the squeaky feel of his skin, the way the sheets smelled after we made love: the smell I chose to never wash away ’til he came home, back when he was on the road. Crazy, how he was one squeeze away from choking me to death, and I could think about that. But I could, I had to hold back from actually trying to kiss him or something, but—I couldn’t. Not this time, I had more to consider than just me.
“Like fucking hellyousay,” he said, “howthefuck you ’splain this?”
At that point, I saw it: He let go with one hand and drew from the table behind him the blanket, the pictures, the bankbook—the very objects I’d tucked beneath the mattress just hours ago.
“Huh, bitch, yougonefuckingsplain this?” He coughed up a mouthful of liquor-laced mucus, then spat directly into the yellow blanket, leaving a vile, rusty canker on its quilted down surface. “And whatthehellis
this
?” he asked, producing a receipt from the doctor, reminding me of my next appointment.
“But Danny, baby, I was gonna tell you, I was, I swear, I was waiting for—“
“Shut up!” He threw the receipt on the floor and slapped my face with his free hand. “You wasted $150 on this shit, and you was planning on going back?” He slapped me again.
“I was waitin’ for Christmas, Danny,” I cried, tasting blood. “I was gonna tell you for Christmas.”
I tried to see Christmas, in later years, with a child and homemade ornaments, a letter to Santa Claus, and a new, improved Danny, singing Rudolph and Jingle Bell Rock, in a perfect world I knew would never happen. That’s when it registered that no music was playing—not from his studio, or the radio, not on TV, not anywhere in the world that I could tell. And realizing that silence was like sharp pains in my ears: I was almost relieved when Danny yelled at me again.
“The hell you were. I won’t have it! I told you I don’t want no damned kids, you knew better. Hell, you’re never here—How the hell I know it’s mine, you fucking whore?”
I saw his knee coming for my stomach, and I jerked away just in time. The silence was still there, but I filled it with nursery rhymes, in the back of my head.
Ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross
. . .
“No, Danny, no—you know it’s yours. I’ve never—”
“I don’t either know it. Fucking kid’s a bastard just like you are. I shoulda known trash breeds trash.”
Now he was after my stomach with his fist. I crouched down to the floor, covering my womb with my head and hands.
To see a fine lady upon a white horse
. . .
“No, Danny, please. Please don’t hit me there! Please,” I screamed.
“Got it all planned out, doncha? Saving up money, lots of it, hide it in a bank I don’t know about. Plannin’ on buyin’ all this exthspesiff shit—“
Focusing on the nap of the brown shag rug, I felt a spray of spittle hit my hair, but I didn’t—I couldn’t—look up.
“Thisfuckinshit for that bastard kid,” he said, “and you think I’m gonna sitaround and take it? Huh?”
He kicked at my stomach this time, but I offered my head in its place. It hurt like hell, but it knocked him off balance. Now we were both semi-sitting on the floor.
He pushed me down, half straddled me and raised his knee.
“Please don’t, Danny,” I begged. “Hit my face, please, Danny, hit my face.”
He obliged. He slapped me, again and again, calling curses with each slap.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
. . .
Later it turned to punches with his fist, showing surprising energy for a drunk. At some point I felt my jaw go, then my nose, when a great burst of fresh blood showered him.
He swore and tried to wipe the blood from his eyes. He fell backward and passed out.
She shall have music wherever she goes
. . .
I stayed put for what seemed like an hour, just to make sure he was out.
Chapter 22
Phil
It was Sunday morning, early, barely daybreak when Phil heard a car pulling up in the driveway. Not fully awake, for just a minute he thought it was Will, then remembered that his old friend was gone. More curious than frightened, he jumped out of bed and grabbed a flashlight, the closest thing to a weapon he saw handy. An arsenal of weapons downstairs, he kept not so much as a slingshot around to defend himself.
His father would have labeled him a fool.
Looking out the front window, he recognized Mojo’s sad, abused Pinto, lights still on but the motor turned off. He heard the car door open yet never close. No one exited the car. Accompanied by Will’s old tomcat, Phil stepped out into the yard to see if she needed help.
Phil had never seen anyone as badly beaten up, not ever. Her nose was obviously broken, and he’d wager there were more broken bones as well. Blood caked from her nostrils to her chin; he wondered about her teeth. Other cuts and scratches covered her face and arms, some still seeping blood. One eye was ringed in black and swollen shut, the other completely red, her neck covered in swelling bruises. There was no way she could’ve driven there, yet she had.
She was trying to get out of the car, raising herself up, only to continuously slump back down into the driver’s seat, babbling incoherently.
“But I need to work, I gotta work,” she said, tears leaking from her closed eye, the other staring into the early dawn. She seemed oblivious to Phil’s presence when she suddenly gasped and fell over against the steering wheel.
Despite the illness that now left him frail and weak, adrenaline kicked in, and Phil easily lifted her tiny body from her car to his truck. She never opened her eyes or made a sound. By the time he reached the emergency room, he believed she was dead.
Chapter 23
Sheriff Wally Purvis
It was like nothing we’d ever seen in Dumas County, and I hope to God I never have to see such again.
That Foster boy never was worth a damn, a disgrace to his family, a lot of folks thought. Don’t believe he ever had a job in his damned life, just kept busy spending his daddy’s money, ’til the last few years when he piddled around on what was left of his daddy’s farm.
It was a tragedy ’bout ol’ Mr. Foster, he was a good man. His family opened the panty factory that brought jobs for all the women folk. Took care of his farm workers, too—Mojo’s uncle, that Calvin Mullinax, lost his arm working on the Foster farm—probably his own fault, not paying attention like young boys’ll do, but ol’ man Foster did right by him—sent Calvin to some fancy rehab hospital the President went to, mind you—and gave him money besides that. But like happens to a lotta folks, that Calvin got him a little money, then he got to feelin’ sorry for hisself, expectin’ something for nothing, and he never worked again. Slap drank himself to death. Died in that crazy house where Mojo lives now. Yeah he did . . .
But old Mr. Foster, he was a good man. We was all right happy when that boy o’ his left here, just a month or so after his daddy passed. We was thinkin’ he was gone for good, figured we’d never see him again.
Then like a bad penny, he just showed up, few years ago. Some folks said it was when his money ran out. Some of ’em said he came home to die. Some said he had cancer, but it turned out to be a lot worse than anybody imagined, hell, cancer woulda been better. He’s the only person I’ve a-known of to have that AIDS mess, God help us. He did keep to himself though, didn’t bother nobody, well—nobody that didn’t need to be bothered, I reckon.
Now little Mojo was a good girl, never had much, but she was a hard worker. Heard some talk, long time ago, bout maybe that hoodlum Phil Foster boy bein’ Mojo’s daddy, but Delores never would admit to it. Strange how they all ended up, though.
That Danny Hatcher was a sorry one for sure, and Mojo’s a lot better off without him. Still, I hope I never see another scene like that one, not never.
You see, Mojo just showed up at the hospital, somebody left her there. We didn’t know about her for two or three days, when she first woke up, she didn’t know where she was or how she’d a-got there. And by the time we knew where she was, well, it just wasn’t the right time to put her through all that.
A call came in from that Phil Foster, oh, about two in the afternoon. He didn’t say who he was, but we pieced it all together afterwards. Said to send a police car and a ambulance to the house on stilts. He said to go there first, then he said there was some trouble at the lodge at Oakland, but it could wait. He hung up.
I didn’t know what to think, but I called the ambulance and took off to Mojo’s. Sent a deputy out to Oakland, but he didn’t see nothing so he joined back up with me.
That house was tore apart, trashed, beer cans and liquor bottles all over the place, a little white powder with a cut-off straw and a razor blade there on the kitchen table.
And there on the floor was ol’ Danny, what was left of him. Half of his face was splattered to the wall.
’Course the coroner said Danny never felt a thing, he was passed out drunk and stoned and God knows what all when it happened. But then he said whoever killed Danny kicked him, too, forty or fifty times,
after
he was dead.
I’d done called the coroner and was a’waitin’ on him and my deputy to get there, when I thought to stroll through the rest of the place, in case there was anymore evidence they’d need to take in with ’em.
The back bedroom didn’t even have a bed, though we did find one stood up in the closet.
It was clean and neat, posters of rock bands and black and whites of old guitars framed and hanging on the walls, everything in its own place. The room had a couple of chairs, a rug, and enough wires and music equipment to fill the front end of a music store. Can’t say most folks woulda saw a need for it, but did look nice.
The little bathroom was nice—one wrinkled teeshirt on the back of the commode really stood out against the neatness of matching curtains and towels and the like. It was all yeller and green—made you feel clean just to stand there.
But then I went in the real bedroom, and it was a sadder sight, if that’s possible, than the one I saw coming in.
The room was wrecked—every drawer pulled almost out with contents hanging on the sides, closet wide open with hanging clothes thrown to the floor, Mojo’s family pictures hanging crooked like something’d done shook the house.
With covers stripped from the bed and the mattress hanging off, a pale, bruised Phil Foster lay on the bare box springs. Facing the door with his hands by his head, I could imagine him just taking a breather while he waited for something or someone. His position made sense, but with his cold-eyed stare, there was no doubt: Foster was dead.
I went back to the lodge after they took away the bodies. That lodge is a right nice place. Got some huntin’ trophies, mounted bucks, some fine fish, and the place is clean as a whistle. I called out, looked around, saw nothing. Last place I looked was like an office—I’d heard tell about Ol’ Man Foster’s gun room, but it was more like a museum in my book. Every gun shinin’ like it was brand new, each one labeled. It’s a pity.
Together we decided Foster’d gone down to the river and killed Danny, planning on coming home and surrendering peacefully when we came to get him. Guess the thing he didn’t count on was that his frail heart and body just wouldn’t hold out for that much excitement. Doctors say he died of natural causes, related to his prior condition.
Foster didn’t have much, but he left the lodge and all the guns to some “historical society.” To some folks, that makes him a hero. Hell, some folks’d say what he did to Danny made him a hero.
Not to me. I believe in doing things by the book.
Still, I gotta admit, at least Foster’s way, we can be sure he won’t be serenading any other trusting gals to his sorry way of life. Still, it’s a pity . . .