Authors: Jill McCorkle
Much to my relief, my mother said that it was way too cold to camp out in the yard, and soon Misty gave up on the idea. Instead we spent many of the nights over the holidays just wrapping packages, baking cookies, and listening to the radio out on the sleeping porch; from there we could see the blinking Christmas lights scattered about. I had to prove to her that it was the solitude, the peacefulness of the quiet nights, that led me out on the porch, the distant whoosh of the highway noise, the frozen branches brushing against the screens, rather than the glimpses into Merle Hucks’s house.
It was after nine when Misty left the night of the twenty-third and I returned to the porch, where we had left the radio playing. The house next door to the Huckses’ had lights of all colors, string after string, wrapped around the eaves of the roof
and every window and stick of a shrub.
Carnival
was the word my mother and Mrs. Poole had batted back and forth.
Psychedelic
was Misty’s choice. They had a manger scene with life-size plastic figures, a flood light fastened to the floor of the manger so that the baby Jesus could be seen even from my spot on the porch, a bright glow in the distance. Early in the evenings, the people put their stereo speakers in the front windows and played Christmas music—
Do you hear what I hear?
—and my mother responded that she did and in fact she had heard all she wanted to hear. It was times like that when my father called her
feisty
and offered her a smoke, looked at her with genuine pride and love.
“And imagine what they must’ve spent on that plastic manger.” She shook her head and sighed a sigh the magnitude of one sighed for murder and pestilence. “They could’ve bought food for a month.”
Now, the house was silent but the lights still shone and Jesus still glowed. It was odd that of all the houses I could see from my spot, this was the one that did not leave me feeling empty. I didn’t know the people, had only seen them, a young couple with two small children; I imagined the excitement that must course through them each night when it was time to plug in the lights and blast the music. I imagined that any parents who would go to such lengths to proclaim Christmas joy must truly feel it with every colored bulb that blinked and every chord of every carol.
I could see Merle, a brief glimpse as he passed in front of that window; he was wearing the red flannel shirt that he had worn to school the last day before vacation. Now strand by strand, the lights of the carnival house were unplugged; it looked as if the house were disappearing section by section as it gave in to darkness and then there was only the glow of the baby Jesus, the light softened by the blue blanket draped there. It seemed that, instead of bringing quiet, the darkness was a signal for my parents to begin as they had for several days, their voices mumbled like a mouthful of marbles. Angela was planning to come for Christmas
after all;
her romance was not working out as planned and she needed to be with
her family.
I had heard enough to know that it was the same old discussion.
The only time she comes around is when
her
life isn’t working. Just once I wish there wasn’t a catch. Just once I wish she would give me more than a day’s notice.
Now the bare bulb in Merle’s house was the only light as I looked out over our backyard. There was just a sliver of a moon that night, a fairy tale moon like the pin Angela had given to my mother; it was too thin to give much light, so even after several minutes of concentrated staring, the shadows of the trees and the gates of the cemetery were hard to distinguish. My mother opened the door, her movement startling me.
“We’re going to bed,” she whispered. “I think you better come on in now. It’s freezing.”
“I’m coming,” I told her. “But I might go downstairs and watch TV awhile.”
“Don’t sit up too late,” she said, and stepped back inside. “We’ve got lots to do tomorrow.” She paused. “Rumor has it we might be having company.” I waited until I heard her bedroom door close, and then I went downstairs. The nightlight in the hallway was on so I didn’t turn on any lamps, just went to the kitchen, where I could look and still see that bare bulb hanging. There were several motorcycles parked in the driveway, and I could see people passing back and forth in front of the window, the blacks and blues of their clothing, an occasional bit of red which I assigned to Merle. I sat on the kitchen counter, my feet in the sink, and got as close to the window as I could without causing it to fog over. The house was dark except for that one bulb.
The idea came suddenly, Misty’s voice urging that we should sneak over and spy, sneak over and see what it looked like inside of that house. Sneak to the far end of the cemetery there near the Wilkins plot, climb the huge magnolia tree. If I had been watching myself in a movie, I would have said,
Don’t do it, don’t do it,
but
I acted without thinking, grabbed my jacket off the kitchen chair and tiptoed out onto the back porch, easing the door to behind me. Oliver was there in a second, weaving in and out between my legs and purring loudly. Everything seemed so loud, the squeak of my sneakers on the cement step and then the rustle of the dry grass. It was colder than I’d realized while sheltered on the porch with a blanket, but I didn’t go back inside; my heart raced as I breathed the freezing air.
I was halfway across our yard before I even looked back. The sleeping porch was so dark that if my mother or father had been there, I wouldn’t have been able to see them. Our yard had grown with the darkness, lengthening towards the bare bulb as I made my way through the shrubs along our drive and into the cemetery. Somehow the calming sense of peace, which I could conjure while in my bed or while looking at the tombstones from my window, disappeared and I was left with a sudden sense of panic, the same as when I crept through the gates that other night, the night Buddy was born. I moved quickly down the path, limbs brushing against my jacket. I never glanced to either side, but focused on my destination, faster and faster. I felt as if there could suddenly appear behind me something hideous and destructive. Everything looked different in the darkness; the trees were taller, the weeds higher, the monuments like a cold gray city in the distance; with every step, the weeds seemed to spring back with a rustling sound, pinpointing my every move and breath for whoever could be watching.
Once I got within reach of the tree, carefully stepping around and over the rolls of chicken wire and discarded planks, I crouched down. I heard the creak of a door, voices, and so I quickly crawled under the thick branches of the tree. The large waxy leaves shielded me from sight as I felt for the smooth trunk and as quietly as possible began to climb. When I was at a safe height, I stopped, my legs straddling a thick branch, my back against the trunk. If I pulled the branch above me to one side
I could see Merle’s house, that bulb still shining; I could see a picture of a rooster, the kind fashioned from glued kernels of colored popcorn, hanging on the wall.
Again I heard voices, laughter. There were two people coming down the back steps and moving across the yard. They stopped near the clothesline, a concrete post, and again I heard whispers and laughter as the two pressed together, kissed. I leaned my head back against the trunk and looked straight up, the moon visible between two branches.
Somewhere there was a fire engine, the siren, loud and then faint, and there was movement beneath the clothesline; there was the sound of tires on pavement, a distant hum from the highway. I turned back to the yard and the rustling sounds. It was like I was paralyzed and couldn’t turn away; now they were near the faint glow of the streetlight. I strained to get a better look and then I recognized my car coat, that faded blue quilted jacket, slick from wear, the white fur around the hood dingy, gray in the dim light. There was the flash of a cigarette lighter, and I saw Perry Loomis stretched out on the grass, her hair loose and falling over one shoulder as she beckoned to whoever was standing in the darkness. I held my breath, heart pounding. I focused on the window, the red oilcloth on the kitchen table, the dirty dishes stacked on the counter, empty plates and beer bottles. Then Merle was there, in the window, hands cupped up to his face as he peered out into the yard. I had expected to see him step from the darkness, but it was Dexter with Perry; he was rubbing his hand around her eyes, caressing her temples, pressing in so hard I could feel it. He stretched out on top of her and she laughed, locked her small white hands behind his neck. Her hands then moved up and down the back of his denim jacket, over the skull and crossbones painted there. “It’s too cold out here,” she said, and giggled, her voice just as I remembered it. “I mean it now, Dexter. Let’s go inside.”
I knew something was about to hit; I knew it. It was like seeing
the headlights round the curve or hearing the loud roar of a freight train in the split second before a tornado touches down and inhales a portion of the world.
Out of nowhere, engines revved and three bikes came around the corner of the house, the bright white headlights scanning the yard like beacons. Merle was no longer in the window but at the back door. They cut the engines, leaving one headlight glaring. Perry sat up, her hand shielding the bright light, and then within seconds, R.W. Quincy was there, his large hands catching her ankles and pinning them down as if she were a trapped animal held for observation. Dexter had her arms and his slow caresses were now hard and binding as he held her. Her eyes were wide open, wide and staring, surprised to see R.W. there at her feet, surprised to see the other two who had just stepped up. They took their jackets off and tossed them to one side. “Dexter?” Perry screamed, and then she was struggling to sit up, her lips moving, face frozen in that glaring light. “Dexter, stop it.”
It was as if Dexter didn’t hear her; he didn’t even look at her face, just motioned for one of the guys to hold her arms. Then he pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped out the blade and began circling her. Perry’s face was stark white. Dexter had tossed off his jacket, and his wiry biceps flexed as he slapped the knife from hand to hand. I held my breath, looked at the house next door, the manger in their front yard dark. I heard the door slam shut, running footsteps in the leaves.
Then Merle was there, his eyes on Perry as Dexter unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a white lacy bra with the little pink rosebud in the center, the kind of bra designed to look pure and innocent.
“What’s going on?” They all stopped and turned towards Merle, but his eyes were on Perry, and on the knife in Dexter’s hand. He stepped into the bright light, fists clenched as he looked away from Perry and focused on his brother.
I could feel panic rising in Perry’s chest as her stomach rose and fell faster and faster with her breath, her limbs thrashing to
escape the holds. She turned her head to Dexter, and I knew that she was begging. “I’m cold,” she said, her face turned my way, pale and distorted by fear and sobs. Merle lunged at Dexter, his fist raised. He was stopped by one of the other boys, who grabbed him around the neck and pinned his arm behind his back, pushing higher and higher as if he might break it. The blade of the knife caught the light as Dexter turned it from side to side. “Please. Please.” Perry’s hollow voice rose and then broke as he pressed the flat of the blade against her stomach. “You were begging please just a few minutes ago, too, weren’t you? You wanted it until we had an audience, didn’t you?” He moved the blade back and forth and she nodded. “Well, that’s the whole purpose; just think of it as doing me a favor. I mean, I could be with somebody else right now, you know?” She was silent as he inched the blade under the pale pink rosebud, and in one swift motion lifted the knife, her bra severed as she lay naked and exposed.
“Leave her alone!” Merle’s voice had the high shrill pitch of panic.
“Hey, if he ain’t one of us”—the tall guy holding Perry’s arms nodded towards Merle—“then get him out of here.” He leaned down close, his hair falling onto her cheek as he ran his mouth up and down her neck. Dexter watched, his fist clenched, but he didn’t say anything.
“Let her go, Dexter,” Merle screamed, but his words were cut by the grip on his neck. He was thrown to the ground, and then I heard the punches and groans as the two rolled away from the light. “You’re all crazy,” Merle gasped, and pulled up on his hands and knees.
Dexter pressed the blade against Perry’s stomach while the guy holding her arms ran his tongue along the curve of her breast. “Tell him”—Dexter’s voice was shaking then—“tell my baby brother everything’s okay, this is what you want.” He rubbed his hand gently over her other breast and then up her neck to her mouth. He was whispering then, coaxing, I assumed, his mouth
covering hers. “Tell him it’s something I have to do, Perry,” he said. “You don’t want me doing this to somebody else, do you?”
“You’re crazy, Dexter,” Merle screamed, and got to his feet; he ran towards Perry again, only to be caught and held by the throat. “C’mon, R.W., don’t let them do this. What’s happened to you?” R.W. stood and came towards Merle, fist drawn back. I heard Merle clear his throat, struggle to spit towards R.W., and in that second, they slugged him, once in the face, three times in the stomach, and then they pushed him under the magnolia tree, limbs snapping as he fell; when he tried to get up, they kicked him again and again until there was silence below.
Dexter was on top of Perry then, the other boy still holding her down. He moved against her, the knife between them, and then he pushed up, his knees straddling her. I held my breath as I watched, though the ringing in my ears was so loud I felt dizzy. I was afraid to look below, at the quiet darkness where Merle had fallen. When Dexter rolled off her into the grass, R.W. stepped forward. The boy holding her arms leaned forward to cover her mouth with his own just as she started to scream.
I swallowed, stared upwards through the jungle of thick limbs, a height of a hundred years, the dim sky, thin moon; somewhere up there was the Christmas star. I focused my sight on only the limbs; if I had closed my eyes for a second, the dizziness would have caught up with me. I’m not sure how long I stayed that way, motionless, barely breathing, but it was long after they pulled Merle from beneath the tree, long after Perry had covered herself with my coat,
my
coat there on the frozen grass. It was long after the motorcycles had revved and sputtered and disappeared in the night. I could not shake the picture of Perry, her muffled screams as hands and mouths stifled and probed her, her body held and pinned, naked and helpless, an experiment, a specimen.