Tuesday, June 7, 2011

The day burned as hot as an acetylene torch. Kit drove his father’s Chevy Silverado with the air conditioner on high. Albert was not feeling well and needed a prescription picked up.

“Go get it for me,” Albert had said in his usual brusque manner.

“I’m low on gas,” Kit had replied. He felt like a teenager again begging for gas money.

“Take the truck. It’s got plenty.”

He had spent the morning at the police station, giving his formal statement to Deputy Paul Mitchell, an African American in his early thirties. Despite a history of barroom donnybrooks in his younger days, Kit had no misdemeanors on his record. He breathed a silent prayer that there weren’t any felonies for drug possession either. Before Kit had left, Deputy Mitchell had reiterated the sheriff’s instruction to remain in town.

The diesel engine rumbled as he waited at the stoplight. He felt self-conscious driving the damned thing, as if by doing so he had capitulated, and the rednecks had won. He passed the empty shell that had once been Bennett’s Drugstore.

It had closed in the mid-1990s, something that Albert never failed to lament. Kit had endured a five-minute diatribe on the front porch as he’d tried to leave. The disappearance of small-town America. According to his father, it was because of all the illegal immigrants and the liberal Democrats who wanted to take America apart piece by piece. Kit couldn’t even get away from the vitriol of partisan politics in the cab of the pickup. Albert’s radio was tuned to an ultraconservative talk station that warned true patriots to stand firm in the fight against tyranny. Kit had turned it off and listened to the air-conditioning instead. Better cool air than hot air.

Black Rock had two pharmacies now. One was inside a chain grocery store; the other was family owned. Kit had no doubt which one Albert supported. He passed the grocery store and pulled into the parking lot of a small building with a forest-green awning. As he got out, his gaze drifted up the road, and he saw it.

The only strip mall the town had ever had.

Memories shook loose. Black Rock Plaza had once boasted an auto parts store, thrift shop, shoe store, and appliance store. But for a kid growing up in the ’80s, what made it the place to hang out was the arcade, the burger joint, and—best of all—Moviehound Video & Tanning. It had been the only place where you could rent a VCR and three movies for the weekend for $14.99. How many hours had he spent browsing the VHS boxes lined up on wooden shelves that smelled of furniture polish? As an added bonus there was a better-than-average chance of spotting some of the hottest high school girls at any given time since it had a tanning salon in the back.

Kit smiled at the old plaza as he remembered the time in 1983 when he and Troy had been trying to decide between The Evil Dead (again!) and the newly released Creepshow. Jennifer McCormick, Christa Gardner, and Nancy Martin had sashayed in for their tanning appointments. The boys had tried to sneak into the tanning area, but because it was near the family section, their efforts were stymied by a mother and her two children browsing the shelves.

Now, like so much of the town, the shops stood forlorn and unwanted like fat kids waiting to be picked for teams in gym class. Weeds sprouted from the buckling pavement. Kit stared at the far end where the door that had once led to the arcade stood. Many a quarter had been sacrificed on the altar of Asteroids in the quest for the holy grail—the high score with his initials at the top.

Kit collected Albert’s prescription and was on his way back to the truck when he heard the commotion. Two rows over, a woman was attempting to get past two young men. No matter which way she moved, they blocked her path. Kit was too far away to hear anything specific, but he knew the sounds of harassment.

He had never considered himself heroic. He used to cross the road to avoid having to walk past any of the Dunleys. He had taken the longer route between classes—even though it almost always made him late—in order to stay clear of the older students’ lockers. He had done his best to be invisible because getting involved always put you on someone’s shit list. He had been on the receiving end of enough harassment to last a lifetime, which is why his next action stunned him.

He turned and walked toward the woman.

He could see she was frustrated to the point of tears. She clutched her purse and tried to knock away the groping hands.

The boys hooted and made lewd comments. One wore his hair cropped close to the skull. He must have been blond because in the sunlight he looked almost bald. The other’s hair was darker, spikey—

Kit almost laughed out loud. You’ve gotta be kidding me! Billy Ray Cyrus called from 1992. He wants his mullet back!

The woman was about Kit’s age with professionally styled medium-length auburn hair. She wore light-green capris and a matching top. Her antagonists wore dirty jeans, T-shirts, and boots. Both had hawk noses and wide-set eyes.

Damn it!

They were Dunleys. That was all Kit needed. He wanted to turn around and go back to the truck, but his legs refused to go any direction but forward.

One of the Dunleys managed to snatch the purse away from the woman. They played keep-away with it but stopped and looked up as Kit approached. The woman’s face, a mix of impotent fury and helplessness, beseeched him for aid.

“What’s going on here?” Kit asked with more authority and audacity than he felt.

“The fuck is it to you?” Buzz Cut demanded. He held the purse by its strap.

“Mind your own business,” Mullet added.

“Come on, leave the lady alone,” Kit said with a calm, even tone. “She’s just trying to go to the store.” The rational part of his brain—the part that had encouraged him to spend his childhood and adolescence trying to hide from the Dunleys—screamed at him to leave.

Mullet turned from the woman and faced Kit. “You deaf as well as fat, old man? Walk the fuck away. Now.”

“You got any idea who we are?” Buzz Cut asked, his eyes narrowed. The prospect of enlightening a newcomer to the Dunley legacy gleamed on his face. He dropped the purse.

Kit raised his hands in surrender. “Yeah, I know who you are, and I don’t want any trouble. Just leave the lady alone, okay?”

“Fuck you, fat ass!” Mullet snapped. “We do what we damn well please!”

Kit glanced behind the Dunleys, praying for someone else to come along. This would be the perfect time for Sheriff Owens to show up. Kit saw the woman retrieve her purse while the Dunleys were still focused on him. She rummaged through it behind their backs and pulled something out.

Kit saw what she had and couldn’t help but smile.

“You think this is funny, bitch?” Buzz Cut demanded, squaring his shoulders.

At that moment something unlocked inside Kit, and a cocktail of excitement, adrenaline, and nerves flooded his system. It warmed him like hot chocolate on a wintry day. He ignored the part of his brain that was trying to get him to flee. All he felt now was the pressure of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

He released the pressure with a blast of bawdy laughter.

The Dunleys stared at him.

Kit pretended to wipe away a tear. He fixed a steely gaze on the Dunleys as heat burned in his stomach, in his heart, and behind his eyes.

“Actually, yeah,” Kit replied. “It’s hysterical.”

Kit’s laughter died. His smile faded. His tone became a crowbar breaking a lock.

“I grew up here. Even back then you lot were the biggest troublemaking sons of bitches in the county. Everybody hated your family. Probably still do. If Black Rock is the butthole of nowhere, then you’re just the fucking dingleberries hanging off it,” Kit said.

Kit waited until their Neanderthal-sized brains caught up. As they did, the Dunleys’ expressions darkened. Mullet’s lips peeled back, and Buzz Cut worked his jaw from side to side.

Wow, that felt good! But now what do I do?

“Hey!” the woman called.

Mullet whirled around.

Arm outstretched, she pressed the plunger with her thumb. Pepper spray spewed into Mullet’s face. He shrieked, staggered back into a car, and collapsed in the parking lot.

Buzz Cut looked at the woman and was about to hit her when Kit moved, putting every bit of his size behind the punch. His fist slammed into Buzz Cut’s throat. The force lifted Buzz Cut off the ground. He landed on his back and wrapped his hands around his throat as he gasped for breath. He coughed and gagged as every attempt to breathe was emphasized by wet, whistling sounds.

The woman returned the pepper spray to her purse. “Nice right hook.”

“Thanks,” Kit said, shaking his hand. He had forgotten how much punching someone hurt.

In his late twenties Kit had gone through a period—he referred to it as his Road House phase after the Patrick Swayze movie—where he didn’t shy away from a fight. It was as if all his pent-up anxiety and low self-esteem had exploded in a series of bar fights. It also could have been because he’d had a big mouth, a chip on his shoulder, and an even bigger load of childhood baggage that always popped open at the wrong time. Getting into a scrum gave him an outlet for his anger.

It wasn’t until Kit fractured his wrist in 1999, just before he turned thirty, that he realized he was on the verge of losing the one thing he loved most and did well—playing guitar. So fighting was out, and drinking became his new outlet. He could sure use one now.

“Are you okay?” the woman asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Thank you so much! Nobody around here will do anything about those damned Dunleys.”

The Dunleys still moaned and coughed as they writhed on the ground.

She studied him. “Did you really grow up in Black Rock?”

Kit nodded.

“You look familiar. Did you graduate from here?” Her brown eyes kept analyzing his face for some point of connection.

“Yeah, good old Black Rock High, class of ’86.”

“Hmm, 1986… You’re…Chris McNeil, aren’t you?”

Kit smiled and nodded. As he examined her features, recognition clicked into place. “You’re Courtney, right? Courtney Shefford?”

She grinned.

“Oh, wow. It’s been a long time,” Kit said and immediately regretted it. Of course, it’s been a long time, you idiot. Still as smooth as a chain saw blade with the ladies.

“Yes, it has.”

He hadn’t completely forgotten her. Courtney Shefford had been part of a clique in high school that came across as little angels in public, but rumor had it that behind closed doors, they turned into devils. Of course, Kit had never had any firsthand knowledge of that. He had never had the confidence to ask any of them out. Courtney and her friends had always been out of his league. His heart beat quicker as he looked into her eyes.

It’s just the adrenaline being flushed from my body, he thought, trying to convince himself.

She was several inches shorter than him and thin. She definitely worked out. She had been in the class of ’87, so that would make her forty-one now. She had great eyes that balanced a small nose, and he liked the slight bit of middle-aged weight she carried in her cheeks. He didn’t see a wedding band.

“You got out of here, didn’t you?” Courtney asked. “Where’d you go?”

“Uh, Nashville, mostly. Other places too.” He didn’t volunteer any names.

“It was your music, wasn’t it? Even before we graduated, I just knew you would make it big. I remember your performance in the talent show that one year. Wow, I’ll bet you know a lot of stars!”

The attention and interest flattered him. Had she been watching him all through high school? Had she felt this way back then? Why hadn’t she ever said anything?

He heard scuffing on the pavement and ugly, raspy breathing. Kit turned.

“You’re dead, motherfucker!” Mullet shouted. One eye was swollen shut, and his face was as red as a baboon’s ass. Spittle flecked his lips. He helped Buzz Cut—whose complexion was grayish blue and whose breath still gurgled in his throat—to their black Dodge Ram pickup. It was splattered with mud, had an empty gun rack in the window, and bumper stickers that proclaimed “One Big Ass Mistake America” and “Dale Earnhardt #3 Never Forget.” As they rolled out of the parking lot, Mullet flipped the bird at Kit and shouted, “This ain’t over! You’re so fucking dead!”

Courtney shook her head as she watched them drive away. “Can you believe that family is still breeding? Anyway, what about your music career? How’s it going?”

Kit felt awkward, as if he had brought home a bad report card. What was he going to tell her? She seemed to have the idea that he had been touring the world with Garth Brooks or some other superstar. Did he dare tell her the truth—that instead of stardom he was a messed-up guitar player who didn’t have two nickels to rub together and couldn’t keep a spot in a band? That he had spent more on booze and blow than he had ever made? That the most exotic place he had ever played was the Cagun Cooter strip club outside Opelousas, Louisiana?

Yeah, better leave that one out altogether.

She was still waiting for an answer.

Kit rubbed the back of his head. He looked down at her shoes. “It’s been…okay. Not great, really, but at least I get to do what I love.” He had to get the focus off himself, change the subject. He looked up. “So what’ve you been up to all these years?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Living and working.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a paralegal at a law firm over in Spring City.”

“Hey, that’s great! Married?”

She smiled half-heartedly. “I was. Do you remember Doug Best?”

The name barely registered. Kit thought he had been one of the jocks back in school but wasn’t sure.

“We got married in ’94, but after a while…well, things just weren’t working out. We divorced in 2003.”

Kit nodded. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve had two divorces of my own.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“Nope. You?”

“Two daughters. Jillian is fifteen and Whitney is twelve.” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Help! I’m surrounded by overdramatic, hormonal teenage girls!”

Kit gave a mischievous but lighthearted smile. “Is it true what they say about daughters being twice as bad as their mothers?”

“Oh God, I hope not!” She laughed. “No, they’re really good girls. They take after their father more, I think, than they do me.”

“I was just kidding. I’m sure they got your best qualities.”

“That’s sweet of you to say. Did you know they never found Melody Sellers?”

The abruptness of the question caught Kit off guard. He stiffened at the mention of Melody’s name and hoped Courtney didn’t notice. “Uh, yeah. Troy was telling me that the other day.”

“Troy Wallace? That’s right. You two used to be inseparable. I see him around town from time to time.” Her voice lowered and she stared at the surrounding mountains. “It’s been thirty years since Melody disappeared. I have dreams about her sometimes. She hung out with us a lot.”

Growing more uncomfortable by the moment, Kit avoided her gaze and stared at a plastic bag lying in the parking lot. “Yeah, everyone was really freaked out that summer.”

“Our parents were afraid to let us out of the house. Everyone just knew there was some sex maniac on the loose.” Courtney paused. “Do you remember the last place Melody was seen?”

Kit’s throat constricted to the size of a BB, and his heart skipped a beat. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Of course, he remembered. He and Troy were the last ones to see her—with Greg and Jeff Dunley—that summer. How could he forget? They hadn’t told anyone that they’d seen her. Maybe if they had, Melody might still be alive. But they had been too scared of what the Dunleys would do.

What do you think they’re going to do to you after today’s little incident?

Kit lied, “Uh, no, I don’t remember. Like you said, it’s been a long time.”

“It was right over there”—Courtney pointed behind him—“at the arcade. We were all hanging out, and when she left, everyone assumed she had gone home. It wasn’t until later that we found out she never made it home.”

I know where she went.

“I think about her every time I go in here.” Courtney looked at the pharmacy as if it had just dropped out of the sky. Then her mood lightened as she moved on from the memory. She fluttered her hands as if waving away smoke. “Listen to me, running on like this. I am so sorry! I came here to pick up a few things, and here I am wasting your time and babbling on about stuff that happened thirty years ago.”

“No, hey, it’s all right. No problem. It’s really great to see you again. Sorry it had to be because of those two douchebags.”

She laid a hand on his forearm. “Oh, it was so good to see you too! Maybe we can catch up some more another time. Thanks again for your help!”

“Yeah, see you.”

He watched her walk toward the pharmacy. The sun on her hair. The swing of her hips. Those moments in high school when he had thought about asking her out but didn’t dare. Dan Fogelberg’s song “Same Old Lang Syne,” about two people awkwardly trying to reconnect, popped in his head. He didn’t want to be like Dan in that song. He didn’t want another missed opportunity to feel guilty about. As he had done earlier, he acted on impulse. His heart thundered like the bass line of Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”

“Courtney!”

She turned and shielded her eyes from the sun.

“You, uh, wanna get some coffee? Maybe have dinner sometime?” The words poured out of him just as they would have back in high school—rushed, awkward, hopeful. He felt like every person in the world was watching him in that moment. The words hung in the humid air, vulnerable as bone china.

“Sure, that would be great! What’s your cell number? I’ll text you, and that way you’ll have mine.”

Just like that Kit imagined that his luck had started to change.