Chapter Eleven

Clyde awakened slowly, the hint of a smile curving his wide mouth. His brain burned as the darkness fed his need for retribution, which would release Baby Doll from her wretched existence and deliver the freedom of absolution only he could provide. The darkness called to him, growing insistently daily as he prayed and waited, enduring the continuous assault on his psyche that demanded action.

He rose from his bed and saw that Fannie was awake, standing at the stove. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the shack, and his stomach grumbled in anticipation of the morning meal.

“Gets washed up and eats your breakfast, baby boy,” she insisted, speaking over her shoulder. “I needs you to deliver that bread and picks up the wash from Miss Shirley,” she continued as she bustled back and forth from the stove to the table.

His smile broadened as opportunity blossomed before him. He nodded and crossed to the waiting basin, splashing the water over his face and then cupping his hands to pour it over his head. Grabbing a flour sack towel, he scrubbed himself dry, gathered his clothes, and sat back on the edge of his cot, whistling.

Fannie leaned over as he put on his boots, running her finger through his hair and kissing the air above his bent head. “Somebody woke up real happy today.”

He rose, crossed the room, and picked up a tin plate from the table. Then he dipped the thick chunk of bread into the syrup, covering its bottom, and mashed butter into the mixture. Stuffing it into his mouth, he savored the sweet taste, garnering a smile from his mother as she watched him.

“I’m gon’ get my wagon and load it up, Mama, then I be gone.” Clyde stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth, following it with a glass of cold milk that waited beside it.

“And make sure you goes around the long way, so you don’t be near that bad house. You hears me?” Fannie warned as if she could read his thoughts.

“Yes, ma’m.” He nodded vigorously, keeping the deceit from his eyes. Mama didn’t understand. The darkness did.

Now, he stood where he would not be noticed in the shadowy spaces the Mercantile offered. He licked his lips, the glee buoyant at the nearness of success. Today was the day. He had seen Baby Doll strutting inside, and the darkness throbbed in his veins. It writhed and swirled at his feet, agitated by an unexpected movement outside the store window.

Peering from the gloom, he saw a woman standing there, her back leaning against the boards of the Mercantile store. She stared blankly in the direction of the wide window in front of her, ignorant of the dark mists that gathered around her ankles.

She turned, staring past him, looking into the sun hanging high in the cobalt sky, then turned back to the window. Clyde scratched his scalp and squinted, trying to place her face, his eyes stretched wide as he remembered. She was one of the two women who had stood across from the Doll House, the one who swam in the darkness that he could feel. He took a wary step back deeper into the shadows.

The woman took several deep breaths and rubbed her hands that shook visibly on her apron. Sweat glistened on her face, collecting under the band of the white rag that wrapped her hair. She wiped her palms on the apron she wore over her dress, and Clyde watched, mystified, as she withdrew the handle of an ice pick from the pocket, then shoved it hurriedly back inside, her eyes never leaving the window where Baby Doll could be seen completing her purchases.

From his hiding place, Clyde’s eyes wandered over Baby Doll’s brilliant red dress, the color screaming against his eyes even with the window and distance separating him from her. The bodice held a deep décolletage that squeezed the woman’s ample breasts, pushing them up until it seemed she could rest her lowered chin on them. He watched the clerk fumble with her items, unable to raise his eyes, which caused him to drop everything and start the bagging process over repeatedly. Baby Doll leaned on an umbrella. Its fabric matched her dress, as did the hat perched precariously at an angle on her head, topping the riot of black curls.

Clyde heard her laughter as she walked toward the door, speaking over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Zeb. My gal ain’t with me today. Little pickaninny say she sick, but she just lazy, I expect. But you know I ain’t about to carry no bags. Just send it over to the house. You know where we be.”

She winked, and the clerk’s face brightened with color as he ducked his head, causing Baby Doll to laugh harder and add an extra wiggle to her behind, knowing he was watching.

As she turned back toward the door, she cocked her head to the side as if listening to something the man inside was saying, then sashayed forward onto the wooden boardwalk, the umbrella striking the boards with each step and adding to the rhythm of her walk.

Clyde’s heart thundered in his chest, and his plan unfurled in his mind. When she reached the corner of the wall, he would grab her—his hand over her mouth to prevent her from shouting out—then drag her to the alley, where his hands would wrap around her throat and squeeze the sin from her. He licked his lips, quivering in anticipation.

Baby Doll’s footsteps stopped abruptly as the woman stepped directly into her path, causing her to draw back, startled.

“You Baby Doll?” she demanded, forcing the name through lips twisted in disgust.

“Who want to know?” Baby Doll asked, taking two steps back to look down at the woman, who stood half a head shorter than she did. She assessed the odd little woman standing before her, whose hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath a white wrap, making her narrow face appear more severe. Her clothes screamed homespun. She gripped her umbrella’s handle harder, prepared to use it as a weapon.

The woman was breathing hard, unintimidated by the contempt on Baby Doll’s face, haughty tone, or height.

“I don’t gives my name to no harlots,” she sneered and spit on the ground, just missing the toe of Baby Doll’s red shoe. “But you the one been with my man!”

Baby Doll stepped back, raising the umbrella to her shoulder, preparing to swing, studying the woman’s face. She searched her memory, wondering which crazy-ass wife this was coming to settle a score about her man.

“You needs to be talking to your man. Ain’t nobody making him come,” she sneered, allowing her gaze to rake the woman from head to foot before barking out a laugh. “But by the looks of you, I can sure see why he come.”

“Harlot! Jezebel!” the woman screamed, spittle flying from her mouth with the force of her words. Her eyes seemed to glaze over before she spoke again. “You is a corruption to men and boys, dragging them into sin!”

Baby Doll frowned. She didn’t recognize the woman, but then again, she had little use for the frumpy townswomen like her, smug in their righteousness. Still, there was a familiarity there, something in the way she spoke and the words she used.

A bolt of remembrance shot through her brain of a boy in the alley, inviting him upstairs, and her features scrunched tight, red-hot anger mottling her skin until it blended with the rouge on her cheeks. She saw Clyde again, screaming, his finger pointing. She leaned down into the woman’s face, yelling. “You must be some kin to that uppity-ass little holy roller. If you ain’t, then you should be.” She pulled herself back to her full height, rolling her eyes at the woman. “You all cut from the same ‘my shit don’t stink’ cloth—”

The sentence went unfinished as searing pain flared from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. One hand flew to the side of her face. Her mouth gaped open in shock, and she felt hot blood seeping through her fingers. The woman followed the slashing blade, throwing herself forward, toppling both her and Baby Doll to the ground. Air whooshed from Baby Doll’s lungs with the force of their fall, her head slamming hard against the boards.

Trying to gather her senses, Baby Doll pushed and shoved against the woman on top of her, amazed at her strength, her hand trying to reach the razor she carried strapped to her thigh beneath her dress. Unable to get it under the flurry of blows raining over her, she pitched her body violently, feeling the trail of stinging agony as the ice pick tore flesh.

“Get your crazy ass off me. Get off me!” Baby Doll had gathered her breath and was screaming the words, causing a crowd to stream forward, drawn to the chaos. The woman rose abruptly—her chest heaving—and backed up to hug the wall as she moved away from the sound of pounding feet moving toward them. Her eyes were wild and bewildered. The bloody ice pick remained clutched in her fist, and her head swiveled from side to side as people began to approach.

“You best get gone from this place. You leave my husband be. Does you hear me?” she hissed, feeling the edge of the wall as she reached its end. “I kills you if you don’t!” she screeched, tears leaking down her face.

“Sweet Jesus! Somebody calls the sheriff,” someone hollered from the growing crowd, drowning out the sounds of agitated whispers.

Baby Doll moaned and tried to get to her feet, rolling to her side, then slipping back down on one elbow as pain coursed through her shoulder and blood leaked from a half dozen stab wounds. She collapsed in a growing pool of blood.

The store clerk had made his way to the doorway, his frightened gaze going from the woman standing far back against the wall to Baby Doll lying on the boardwalk. Her blood-splattered dress was pushed up to expose her legs, and the rolled stockings were held in place with garters. He moved quickly to kneel beside her. Lifting her head and shoulders, he held her against his chest.

“Let go of me, fool,” she slurred, moaning again loudly but too weak to protest.

“You all best be calling Doc Adams too,” he yelled into the still-growing crowd of bodies wedged tightly against one another.

Feet hammered the boardwalk, lured by Baby Doll’s screams of alarm, and the woman tried to push herself further backward. She wiped the sweat from her brow.

The clerk whipped his head, looking back and forth from Baby Doll on the ground and the woman shrinking into the gathering crowd, barely visible. She pressed against the wall, blood splattered across her face and staining the front of her white apron.

“Catch her before she get away!” he cried as the woman reached the adjacent alley, turning to run. Hands reached out, grasping at her, succeeding in wrestling her to the ground where they held her, thrashing against their restraining grip. Spots of darkness danced across her closed eyelids. The black rage bled through the slats in the wood, draining from her mind and leaving her dazed and confused. She waited for the sheriff to come, her eyes jittering from person to person.

Clyde pressed himself deeper into the crevice that hid him, still in the cover of the shadows, the others oblivious to his presence. His wide eyes locked on the swirling darkness oozing beneath the woman held on the ground. Her head turned toward him, her struggles ceasing as she saw him. Her eyes widened, then went blank as her body deflated and went still.

She was yanked, unresisting, to her feet, and she stumbled forward awkwardly, trying to keep her balance. Her fingers remained clutched around the ice pick in her apron pocket. She pulled it free, staring at the mixture of blood and rust that coated the slender, wickedly pointed metal. The crowd gasped and stepped back, leaving a circle around her and the sheriff who had arrived in their midst.

“Just hands that to me, ma’m,” Jesse commanded, standing before her. He held his hand out toward her, suspicious of the blank expression in the woman’s eyes. “This the sheriff.”

She looked back at him, blinking rapidly, and saw his other hand braced on the butt of his gun. “You just hands it to me, miss. Ain’t nobody gon’ hurt you.”

She sighed, her head dropping forward, and let the ice pick clatter to the ground.

“You got a husband or somebody you wants us to call?” he asked, stooping to lift the ice pick between two fingers—avoiding touching the handle—and passing it to a deputy who had stepped up beside him. The woman threw her head back and howled like a wounded animal, followed by a bark of hysterical laughter. Jesse locked the handcuffs in place, and the crowd parted, allowing him to lead her away, shoulders sloped downward in defeat, screaming and sobbing inconsolably.

The crush of townspeople began dispersing quickly once Sheriff Jesse and Doc departed, one with a prisoner, the other to accompany the wounded. Each person scurried away, eager to chew the details over supper tables or wash them down with a swig of beer.

Clyde waited patiently, then moved from one pool of darkness to the next until he was well away from the scene. Soon, he was full-on running as fast as his legs would allow, losing himself in the trees, the sound of the few remaining people diminishing behind him. The branches thrashed against his face, scratching his cheeks as he ran, afraid to slow down, adrenaline pushing his legs faster, his heart pumping furiously, and the darkness leading him.

Clyde finally collapsed, his back braced against the nearest tree, feeling his frame swell in frustration. It should have been his hand. But instead, he’d remained concealed from sight, licking his lips and savoring the sound of Baby Doll’s screams. Even now, he could still smell the blood, see the woman’s arm rise and fall, the ice pick finding its mark repeatedly. His hatred and the blood lust overtook him then, his eyes rolling back in his head in bliss.

But she still lived. He’d seen her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as they carried her away. Her sin cried out for redemption. The darkness pulsed, dissatisfied, repeating that his hand should have been the one to deliver Baby Doll.