CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Donna Gilliam experienced what could only be described as tranquil reflection, a combination of conscious and subconscious thought that bathed her in a simultaneous sense of peace, clarity, and safety.

The storm continued raging outside. She had made it across the parking lot to the building long before the bridge gave way. She had even managed to get food into Theo’s tummy before burping and allowing him to drift back into whatever realm it was that enveloped an infant at sleepy time. Wherever he was, he was happy there. Occasional upward twitches at the corners of his tiny mouth gave that much away.

The soreness around the rims of her cried-out eyes hadn’t yet gone. She wanted to shut them and rest for a few hours. Or many hours. Her eyeballs itched, sandpapery and burning, as if she’d been swimming in chlorinated water all day long. In any case, there was some comfort for her in the familiarity of Beard’s General. Seated in one of Kathy Beard’s trial dining areas just north of the mouth of the canned goods aisle seemed somehow safe and comfortable. The snoozing baby only enhanced the effect.

She bore marks from the beating Ted had given her that morning, marks that her makeup had not entirely covered. They included several purpling bruises as well as the scabbed-over cut on her temple. Despite her concerns otherwise, no one in the store had bothered to acknowledge them. Except for Kathy Beard, that is. Kathy shot her a mildly concerned glance when Donna pushed her way through the double-hinged door with baby Theo swinging in his carrier at her hip.

Her physical marks would heal in time. They had before. The ones she’d left on Ted never would. For the moment, she was not ashamed of that. Donna had earlier asked Kathy for fresh bandages to replace the ones she’d wrapped around the palm she had sliced while stabbing Ted to death.

She hadn’t said that much, of course. But Kathy didn’t ask, either. She had turned over her first aid kit without so much as a cocked eyebrow. Just in case, Donna spilled the story that she’d concocted along her drive. She said that she’d been slicing a substantial Granny Smith apple and had lost her grip in the process. Kathy had simply nodded and gone about the business of wiping away drops of rainwater from the counter on which Donna had set the baby carrier while she’d been talking. Her tacit willingness to accept Donna’s story had, perhaps, been the beginning of this beautiful tranquil state. She hoped it would last forever. But then they dragged the naked stranger inside, and the spell was broken.

Donna remained seated at the table with Theo when Kathy, her son Jerry, and that odd Peter fellow dragged the strangely nude woman across the threshold and dropped her in a pink, blistery heap in the middle of the floor. Donna automatically covered Theo’s closed eyes as Jerry and Peter hauled the woman inside. Each of the men had her by an armpit, dragging her backward on her heels, allowing the entire store a shameful unobstructed view of her bare ass.

It was an awkward haul for them. Jerry was embarrassed by the real-life nudity and tried to help her without touching her. Peter had that limp of his working against them. The woman’s head lolled from side to side as they moved with her. She’d be lucky if her rescuers didn’t add whiplash to her list of problems because of their jostling. A couple of feet beyond the door, they turned her around and allowed her to collapse.

She lay in a face-down crouch, her forehead propped on the backs of her hands stacked one flat atop the other. She’d bent her knees under her torso so that her bare back curved into a tortoiseshell shape. Her toes pointed outward from beneath the curves of her buttocks. The net effect was that the most sensitive areas of her nudity were hidden from view for the most part. However, Donna surmised that anyone standing in the back of her just then would have been afforded a most unflattering look at her plumbing.

Angry red pimples or boils covered her backside. Some of them had erupted and were oozing a disgustingly thickened yellow pus. Aside from those blemishes, she had the body of an artist’s model, from what Donna could see. Her torso and hips had formed a nearly perfect hourglass from the back. She had no visible sags, no apparent cottage cheese or lumps, no signs of the everyday burdens of aging, nor evidence of having endured the travails of bearing a child.

Had he been (alive) here and seen her, Ted would have already been flirting in his oafish way, even with his wife and child in the same room. She’d never seen his work toolbox, but she always figured that Ted had the lid papered with pictures cut out from girlie magazines and automotive shop calendars like the one Kathy Beard had just scolded her son about. Respect for his wife and child was not something Ted cared for, nor probably ever thought about at all.

To their credit, most of the living men at the front of the store averted their gazes. The Wynn boy was the one exception. He seemed to be trying to avert his gaze, but it proved to be too difficult a task. His wide eyes kept drifting in the direction of the wet and nude woman despite his best efforts to oppose them.

Donna didn’t see the lust in those eyes, however. At least not in the greedy, wolf-whistling, tongue-wagging way she’d seen it in her (late) husband Ted’s. The expression on Eli’s face was more like a combination of curiosity, surprise, embarrassment, and recognition.

All the men had moved from the figure as Kathy shut the door against the weather. They positioned themselves so that if they did happen to glance in her direction, they mainly saw the pool of her flopped-over strawberry blonde mane against the floor and not much else.

The preacher, Mark, even had the good grace to button his ratty jacket and clasp his hands loosely together in front of his trousers. Was it an act of prevention or disguise? If he was an honest man of God, why hadn’t he simply removed the jacket and covered the newcomer with it?

Peter was the only one who seemed more interested in the young woman’s welfare than the novelty of her nudity. He snatched a tarp off a nearby stack of dry goods that had not been shelved. He draped it over her without flourish and pulled it closed around her. With that done, she sat up and began to absorb her new surroundings.

With one petite and pretty hand, the fingers tipped with scandalously red nail polish, the stranger raked long ringlets of hair back from her forehead. It fell into a perfectly parted waterfall, delicately framing her apple pie face and falling softly over the upper lid of one doe eye in a way that presented itself as unintentionally seductive.

Now able to see her face, Donna understood why Eli Wynn had looked so astonished. The woman looked familiar, although she was no one Donna had ever seen in Lost Hollow. After she was covered, both Eli and Jerry stared directly at her, mouths open, like two kids who’d caught Santa Claus in the act of leaving brand new bikes under the tree on Christmas.

The Marilyn Monroe calendar that Jerry had forgotten to toss into the floodwater outside plummeted to the floor at his feet. The rustle caught Donna’s attention. It landed face-up and partially propped against the wall. From within the image, a young Marilyn Monroe grinned out at Donna with the sexy knowledge that she was naked and that Donna was observing that nakedness.

Donna looked from the photo to the woman on the floor and back again. She was the spitting image of the nude Marilyn in that “Golden Dreams” photo from 1949. The resemblance was remarkable: from her hair to her eyes to her lines and curves—even her makeup.

Jerry caught Donna’s gaze and, blushing, retrieved the calendar. He rolled it up carefully so as not to crease the image and stashed it behind a row of glass jars on a shelf nearby before returning to Eli’s side and resuming his agogedness.

Men, Donna thought. She absently stroked the cheek of the infant asleep on her lap. Predictably intemperate. You won’t be like that, though. Will you, Theo? You’ve got a mommy that’s going to teach you better.

“Can someone get her something to wear?” Peter growled. There was urgency in his voice. He stood protectively over the woman, fixing himself between her and the other men. He set his eyes on Kathy, who was holding the store’s telephone handset to one ear and tapping on the plunger. Unable to get a dial tone, she slammed the handset back into its cradle. The telephone responded with a single offended ting!

“Can she pay for it?” she snapped back at Peter. When he glared at her, she rolled her eyes and sighed. “I’ll see what I can find. I think I have some overalls and a few work shirts in stock. She’ll have to do with a pair of rubbers if she wants some shoes, though.”

“Just something that will let her cover up will be fine, please,” Peter replied.

To everyone’s amazement, the young woman opened her mouth and spoke.

“Dry,” she said. Her voice was soft and breathy, aspirated, the opposite of the word she’d just uttered. Her eyes were pleading. Something else in them caused Donna to close her arms tighter around her babe. She hugged Theo close to her breasts. He wrinkled his nose and grunted a small protest but otherwise did not stir.

“Yes, you’re thirsty,” Peter replied. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

Marilyn shook her head. “No,” she strained. “Please. I need to be dry. It burns.”

Peter barked a follow-up order at Kathy: “We need a towel, too.”

“Fine!” came the reply. “I’m working on it!”

A moment later, Kathy returned. In one hand, she held a pair of men’s coveralls. In the other was a wadded-up handful of dry dish towels, one of which sported a blotchy purple stain. She dropped the bundle of cloth in front of Marilyn, who flinched. The red blisters, or whatever they were, had spread into the young woman’s hairline. One had erupted on her otherwise pristine ivory cheek. For a blink, Donna thought she saw a tendril of red smoke or steam drifting into the air from its core. If it had been there, it dissipated before she could fathom it.

Kathy knelt beside the woman, opposite Peter. “What happened to you, darlin’?” she asked. “Pardon me for saying so, but I know just about everybody in these parts, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. Are you lost?”

“I—I was attacked,” the woman replied softly. She sounded uncertain. Her eyes darted left and right under the shadow of her hair as if searching the floor in front of her for what to say.

“Let’s get you to the bathroom,” Peter interrupted. The anger he had directed at Kathy was gone from his voice. In its place was his typical tremulous tenor. “We can talk about whatever happened to you later.” He shot a resentful look at Kathy and added, “When you’re feeling better.”

“I tried to call the law,” Kathy offered. “Phone’s out. Because of the storm, I guess.”

Neither the woman nor Peter appeared to hear her. Peter clasped the edges of the tarp in one hand and held it together around her. The other arm he wrapped around her shoulders, supporting the woman while she stood upon the shaky legs of a newborn foal. Her small hands broke through Peter’s tarp seal long enough to scoop up the coveralls and dish towels (and for Donna to get a glimpse of her knees and thighs). The hands and their contents disappeared back into the folds of her makeshift garment.

Peter and the woman walked in tandem, deliberately making their way past Donna to the tiny restroom in the rear of Beard’s General. She caught a whiff of something that smelled like a freshly struck match as they passed. Marilyn did not seem to notice her at all.

The bathroom door slammed shut in the back of the store. Donna craned her neck for a look. Peter stood outside, his back against the door to protect the occupant.

At the front of the store, Mark began to pace the floor like a man awaiting news of his firstborn. Well, an average man, anyway. Donna was pretty sure Ted had spent her time in labor sitting on a stoop outside the maternity with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon or Busch Bavarian for company. If he couldn’t afford his bottle of Jack that week, that is.

Of course, Ted hadn’t been a thief masquerading as a man of the cloth, either. Donna wondered if she had been the only one to notice the sleight-of-hand the preacher accomplished while Kathy fidgeted with the radio. He’d pocketed at least two bills, from what Donna could see. She thought Peter had seen it, too, but he hadn’t said anything if he did. Of course, there hadn’t been much time to sound an alarm between Mark’s pilfering and Jerry’s discovery outside.

Still, the fact that it was going to be up to Donna to say something irritated her. The more she thought about it, the more her temples throbbed.

It wasn’t until Theo stirred and cooed in her arms that she realized she’d been clenching her teeth. This man who was supposed to be a community leader stole from a widow, a woman who worked hard every day to support both herself and her son. What reasonable excuse could he possibly have for that?

At least he’s not a murderer, a thin but masculine voice cried from somewhere in her conscience.

Neither am I, she answered it. What I did to Ted I did in defense of myself and my son. He could have killed one or both of us. No. Not could. He would have if given time.

Oh, yeah? Then why haven’t you told anyone about that yet?

Fair question, but she was not without an answer. First, they were in the middle of trying to survive a natural disaster. Adding Ted’s death on top of that would only compound the stress of an already stressful situation. Second, and unsurprisingly, none of the Lost Hollow townsfolk who had gathered in Beard’s General with her that evening had asked after Ted. Not even in passing.

Briefly, the image of her husband’s corpse—bloody, bloated, and propped against the wall of their bedroom at home—surfaced in her mind. The memory of his protruding tongue and dead, bulging eyeballs that somehow still managed to convey the shock of his demise made her shudder.

Eventually she would have to explain it all to someone: a friend, a neighbor, a detective, a judge. Eventually she would not be able to justify it out loud as effectively as she had in her head.

The deep cut on the palm of her hand began to sting a little as if she’d touched it with a swab of rubbing alcohol or a dab of Bactine. The sensation killed what remained of the serenity she had achieved before the stranger arrived. A fresh round of tears welled up behind Donna’s eyes. She swallowed, choking them back.

The restroom door creaked ajar and slammed shut again, startling her. Donna twisted in her chair to see Marilyn gliding toward her through the middle of the canned goods aisle. She was no longer nude. The men’s coveralls were at least two sizes too large for her, giving her the appearance of a little girl playing dress-up with clothes from her parents’ wardrobe. Her hair looked completely dry. Her face radiated a healthy pink. Donna could see no sign of the steaming pimple she thought she’d seen on her cheek, not even the beginnings of a scab.

Could it have been just a piece of dirt? she thought.

Kathy had neglected to locate any shoes for Marilyn’s bare feet. Donna noted for the first time that her toenails were painted the same sordid red as her fingernails. Were the real Marilyn Monroe’s toenails painted that color red in the calendar photo that Jerry Beard had been touching himself over? The question prompted the unbidden image in her mind of the shopkeep’s son doing his deed behind the cash register in the store in broad daylight. Donna grimaced and tried to shove it away.

The consequences of the new woman’s experiences outdoors hadn’t been entirely cleansed from her, however. Bluish purple stains of exhaustion bulged around her lower eyelids. The sparkling, electric blue of her irises shown only partially from behind the droop of her uppers.

Peter strode beside her up the aisle, his hands clasped around her shoulders as if to steady her. She stooped under the weight of them as if he was pressing down on her, trying to prevent her from floating away. Donna thought it was a fear any of the men in Beard’s General might have. Slaves to their fantasies, all.

She glanced around at them and noted their identical stares of dreamlike wonder as they watched Marilyn’s progress. Of the three men at the front of the store, only Eli seemed to have lost control of the hinge in his jaw. His chin dangled somewhere down around his Adam’s apple. He closed his mouth long enough to swallow the lusty, hot saliva that had pooled inside. Then the slack retook it.

Hot breath wafted across the back of her neck and the left side of her face. She jerked backward in her seat. The sudden movement prompted a single unsettled cry from the sleeping baby in her arms. Donna’s eyes darted first to Theo, then to the face of the stranger which loomed inches away from hers as Peter ushered her past. The woman’s eyes had gone wide, their irises cracked and pulsating with some kind of fleshy pink substance that undulated wormlike just under the surface. They died in front of her, becoming milky and clouded—a corpse’s eyes.

Ted’s eyes.

Her mouth, like Eli’s, hung open, but not in the same helplessly enchanted way. The stranger’s mouth was a rictus. It made her look hungry and snake-like. A tongue that resembled a splintered shard of glass broken out of a picture frame protruded from within. It flicked at her once. Then it flattened and retreated into the thing’s mouth. The breath that emanated from within the depths of her blackened, cavernous maw carried a foul and burning shit-tinged odor. Donna grimaced in its wake.

“Murderer,” the creature that had a moment ago been a Marilyn Monroe lookalike hissed. Her words fired a fresh volley of the vile stink into Donna’s face. “I smell it on you. Scrumptious. Hot. Tasty. Melty. Murder.”

Donna freed her right hand from under Theo’s sleeping form and pinched her nostrils together, cupping her palm protectively over her mouth as she did. Her squinting eyes watered around the rims, blurring her surroundings. No matter which way she twisted her head, she couldn’t seem to find fresh air.

“Well, doll,” she managed, “at least I don’t smell like shit!”

Then the odor was gone, and the world around her fell silent. Donna loosed her nostrils and used the back of her hand to wipe the tears away from her eyes. She blinked twice to clear away the last of the fog and examined the room. Everyone at the front of the store was staring at her.

Eli’s mouth had closed, at least as far as she could tell. He’d cloaked it with his balled-up left hand as if to stifle a laugh. Mark, Kathy, and Jerry all sported identical expressions of shock mixed with disapproval.

To Donna’s side, Peter still had his hands clasped on Marilyn’s shoulders, although he was no longer ushering her forward. Instead, he hugged her against him. He had stepped around her, his back primarily to Donna as if to shield the new woman from this foul-mouthed young mother and her infant son.

The Marilyn doppelgänger, all restored to her perfectly seductive and pouty beauty, peered at her from under the shadow of Peter’s neck. She pressed her forehead to him like a daughter being comforted by her daddy after having been startled awake from the black hole of a screeching nightmare. Her hands were clasped together under her chin, her doe eyes wide, wet, pained, and sorrowful.

Donna scanned the room once more, seeking an ally but finding none among the host of eyes that met hers.

“What?” she said.