Tucker’s Grove (20 page)

Certainly no ordinary farmer could have given him such
a case of the creeps.

As he toweled himself off, a slow-burning anger grew in him, overshadowing his irrational fear. What did a man like himself have to fear from death anyway? He could not direct his helpless anger at the abnormal white blood cells in hi
s veins, so he lashed out at his wife instead, hurting her because he needed someone to blame for his helplessness. But if the
Ankou
by the field were real, then Ray could confront
him
, focus his questions, his fear, his outrage.

What did he have to fear?
He was going to die anyway….

Betty had dozed off in the motel room chair, and Ray dressed quietly. He slipped into his black shoes, picked up the car keys and dropped the large motel key in his pocket. Ray stared at his wife for a long moment, just remembe
ring her. Betty
’
s makeup had smeared, and her hair looked as if it needed curlers, but she appeared peaceful while she slept. He wanted to kiss her on the cheek, but he knew that would wake her up. He didn
’
t want her to worry about him.

Scotty had also fal
len asleep in his basket. Ray bent over the baby and touched his small forehead. Scotty stirred and squirmed, but didn
’
t make a sound. His fever had dropped a li
t
tle, and he seemed to be getting better. Scotty
’
s immune system hadn
’
t been attacked by someth
ing it couldn
’
t handle, like le
u
kemia. Ray would never be getting better
—
unless, for some cr
a
zy reason, he could strike a bargain with the
Ankou
.

He hesitated for a moment at the door of the motel room, staring one last time at Betty awkwardly asleep in th
e chair, at Scotty lying contentedly on his back in the basket. He wanted to fix the scene permanently in his mind. Then he quietly shut the door behind him…
.

Out on the open road, he left the convertible top down, letting the brisk knives of night wind b
uffet his skin. He breathed dee
p
ly, looking up at the arena of stars overhead. He pushed down on the accelerator before he could lose his nerve.

Sanderson
’
s burned cornfield was several miles down the road, but Ray knew the exact location. The convertible
passed by Gillie DuBay
’
s darkened Conoco station, where a light still burned in the kitchen window of the old man
’
s home. Ray fixed his eyes on the left side of the road as the semicircle of hea
d
lights scooped a path in front of the car. When he distinguis
hed the short black stubble of the burned field, he slowed the car. The headlights bounced up and down as Ray turned off the road and parked on the side. He switched off the engine and the lights, giving himself a moment to adjust to the darkness. The tre
e
s along the fenceline loomed up to block out the stars. He heard grasshoppers, crickets, frogs.

Ray suddenly became aware of the spectral man standing in the darkest part of the lane beside his massive oxcart. Ray could see the burning orange of the
Ankou
’
s eyes. He stepped out of the convertible and left the door open; the small courtesy light shed a feeble glow in the shadows.

Taking two faltering steps before he remembered his bol
d
ness, Ray strode up to the dark man and placed his fists on his hips in an
absurd gesture of bravery. The night air was cold but suffocating, like the air in a sealed coffin; a sickening stench hung around the
Ankou
. Ray felt mindless horror building up in him again, making him want to cringe, to run back to the car and laugh in
sanely as he into a telephone pole at full speed.

The
Ankou
said nothing as Ray stood defiantly terrified in front of him. Ray had no more doubts about the reality of the thing. He could feel his mind stretched and distorted by the wrongness of the spectre
, stretched
almost
to the point of sna
p
ping.

“
Look, I know who you are,”
Ray stammered. “
I know
I
’
m dying. I know I
’
ve got only a month left.”
The
Ankou
glanced at him with his blazing orange eye sockets, and Ray nearly co
l
lapsed then, but he kept thinking to himself,
I
’
ve got nothing to lose, I
’
ve got nothing to lose.
He forced himself not to mumble; he tried to shield himself with thoughts of Betty, of Scotty, of his promotion to vice president, of the new car that Betty w
ould have to sell once he was gone….

“
Why do you have to take
me
?”
Ray realized he had tears in his eyes, and he felt pathetic. “
I
’
ve got a wife, and a son! He
’
s just a baby
—
how can you take away his father? And my wife, how can you hurt her? She won
’
t be
able to survive without me!”

The
Ankou
showed no interest whatsoever and turned slowly to stoop over his cart, reaching inside. The two massive oxen stood in complete blackness, facing away from Ray so that he could see only their bulky backs. The
Ankou
pu
lled a long, gleaming scythe from the wagon bed and gripped it in his gnarled hand with enough force to make the handle groan. He held the scythe for a moment, as if drawing power from the i
m
plement, then he stalked toward Ray.

Ray stumbled backward in ter
ror and fell to his knees. “
Please
don
’
t take me! Wait! I understand
—
you have an accounting to make. You have to balance the ledgers, take your proper toll. But if you
’
re really Death, you shouldn
’
t
care
who you take.”

The
Ankou
stood over Ray, impossibly
tall. His glowing eyes were indeed lifeless. He said nothing, and raised the scythe.

“
But it shouldn
’
t
matter
to you! Take someone else! I can
bring
you someone else! Please
—
if I bring you someone else, will you promise not to take
me
?”

The
Ankou
looked down at him, silently considering. Ray pushed himself to his feet, standing on shaky legs. He pressed the issue, repeating himself and praying he sounded convincing. “
If I bring you someone else, will you promise not to take
me
?”

The
Ankou
stood ri
gid, and Ray backed off one step, widening the distance between himself and the Deadly scythe. The sha
d
ows blurred details of the
Ankou
’
s face, but Ray desperately wanted to believe he saw a smile form on the cadaverous mouth, a slight nod of the leathery
head visible under the wide-brimmed hat.

Stumbling, Ray fled back to the car, breathing great gasps of air. The
Ankou
made no move to follow him.

DuBay
’
s porch light came on the second time Ray pounded the rattling screen door. The old man opened his door
and squinted into the light of the yellow bulb; voices came from the radio in the kitchen. “
Ah, it is you. I am closed, but how may I help you?”

Ray stepped back away from the porch, trying to find the edge of the light. “
I
’
m sorry to come so late, Mr. Du
Bay. But you know I
’
m…
you know we have to drive all the way to Chicago tomorrow morning. Our Buick
’
s making some strange noises, and I wondered if you could have a look?”

DuBay stood by the door in slippers that had several large holes in them. He seemed r
eluctant to leave his radio program. “
I can give you a minute or two, but I can fix nothing until the morning. The light, you know
—
my eyes are weak, and I won
’
t do your engine much good in the dark.”

“
But you could tell us if it
’
s something
serious
or not,
if we
’
re going to break down somewhere between here and Chicago.”

“
That I could.”
DuBay pulled on an insulated jacket, found a flashlight from somewhere near the door, and followed Ray out into the darkness in front of his station….

Ray sobbed and wheeze
d as he drove, trying to keep the co
n
vertible from weaving off the road and into the ditch. He couldn
’
t see straight. His joints screamed in agony, and he knew it would never get better again until he died. But DuBay, Gillie DuBay, that poor old man
—
oh God
!

DuBay was crumpled and bleeding in the back seat of the convertible, staining the new white vinyl seat covers. He had wrestled the old man
’
s body there, then tossed the tire iron back into the trunk. Ray
’
s nose had started to bleed again from the e
x
ertio
n. His head pounded and whirled, making him giddy from the leukemia, from his conscience, and from the awed abhorrence at what he had just done.

He tried once more to call up the resentment he felt toward DuBay, who
’
d had seven decades to enjoy life…
the fr
ustration that DuBay had all that
time
to see the world, and instead he sat on his porch and watched the sun set night after night. Ray a
t
tempted to create hatred for the old man, hoping it would salve his conscience. But the anger wasn
’
t there anymore, on
ly a stunned horror.

The baby-blue hood of the convertible had been up, DuBay squatting under it to look at the mechanical mass of the engine. “
Yes, and what seems to be the trouble?”

“
I
’
m
dying
, that
’
s the trouble.”

Ray prayed he had killed the old man wi
th his first blow to the head. He could hear the
thud
and the
squash
over and over in his ears, like a skipping phonograph record. He was a betrayer, a vile and selfish monster. A murderer
—
he had
killed
somebody. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and hide
, or scream, or run back to Betty and hold her close.

DuBay. DuBay. He had
killed
DuBay.

If I
bring you someone else, will you promise not to take me?

It was worth what he had done, even if it meant he had to face the
Ankou
again. He kept telling himself
that a second chance at life
would be worth even twice this agony. He was doing it for Betty. For Scotty. For
himself
.

He parked the Buick in the rutted lane again and switched off all the lights, just in case someone drove by. Betty could be awake now bac
k at the motel, she might be looking for him, growing more and more worried when she saw the car was gone.
Don
’
t worry yet, Betty
, he thought.
I
’
m going to have a big su
r
prise for you very soon
.

The
Ankou
waited by his cart, blanketed with darkness. Ray wi
ped the wet blood from his nose and got out of the car, breat
h
ing fast, shaking his fear away. He wrestled with DuBay
’
s heavy body, dragging it out of the car and dropping it on the dirt lane so he could get a better grip under the old man
’
s armpits. Anxious, hearing his heart pound like African drums in his ears, Ray heaved DuBay into a rubbery standing position and draped the old man half over his back, then stumbled and dragged the body toward the
Ankou
’
s cart.