Chapter Seven

Clyde watched Mae flinch as he stepped into the apartment almost two hours later, causing her to miss a stitch in the row of the Afghan she was crocheting. His eyes narrowed, daring her to question him about his lateness.

Mae let the yarn and crochet hook fall into her lap as she studied him, standing with the closed door behind him, trying to calibrate his mood and assess the level of danger he brought, wondering when and how everything had gone so incredibly wrong.

Clyde lowered his head, hiding his eyes from her view as his stride took him across the floor to the sink. He passed by the chair she sat in without leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. She rose halfway and then flopped back into the cushions, clearing her throat to get his attention.

“Hey, Clyde, how you be?” she asked, her voice low and holding a quiver.

He grunted and continued to the sink, turning the water on full force before scrubbing his hands vigorously with the Lava soap from the dish.

Gathering her courage, Mae stood, dropping the yarn and unfinished Afghan into the chair. Approaching Clyde, she fought the urge to lean forward, touch his shoulder gently, and turn him around to face her. She would stroke his hair, feeling the silken curls slide through her fingers as they worked themselves to his cheeks, and found the soothing rhythm that would settle him and dissolve his troubles. Instead, she stood still and waited for him to turn.

He spun around, staring hard at her, his nostrils flaring impossibly wide as he inhaled, then shrank back, her smell repugnant.

“Why you smell like that?” he demanded, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Mae lifted her arm upward, leaned down, and sniffed at her armpit, searching for that raw, musty scent.

“Smell like what?” she asked, her eyebrows raised, puzzled. “I done had a bath yesterday.”

“Then you needs to take another one today. You stink.” He slung the words at her as he went to the chair, throwing her crochet work to the floor and kicking it in her direction. “Pick this mess up. Cain’t a man get no rest when he come home?”

“I get it up, Clyde,” she said, rushing across the room, leaning to pick up her work and clasping it to her chest. “And I gots your dinner ready. Baked chicken and cabbage. I know you likes it.”

His dark eyes seemed to dim, an edge of red showing on the rims. Mae felt a tremor begin deep in her belly, traveling upward and spreading down her arms to her hands. She fumbled the yarn as it slipped from her grasp.

“You makes it for me?” His voice was tinged with suspicion, his eyebrows lifting. “You ain’t still feeding your mens, is you?”

“Clyde, I done told you, I don’t cooks for them no more. Not since that trouble what we had.”

Mae did not see him move; her thought cut off before she could continue it. Clyde’s open-palmed slap cracked against her cheek. Dropping to her knees from the force, Mae’s hand rubbed her stinging cheek.

Tears slid through her spread fingers, trailing down the back of her hand. She remained on the floor, dazed and disoriented. Slowly, she staggered to her feet and back across the room to the double-burner hot plate. Using two potholders, she lifted the pot of cabbage and carried it carefully to the table, where she ladled it into their waiting bowls.

Clyde joined her at the table, the chair groaning under his weight. Picking up his spoon, he shoveled the steaming cabbage into his mouth, not bothering to say grace.

“I should have listened to my mama,” he mumbled. Mae lowered her head, her eyes focused on her plate as the tears continued to fall.

“And shut up that damned noise,” Clyde growled, rising from his seat and looming over her, his hand raised.

Mae sniffled loudly, sucking down her tears, and went silent. Clyde fell heavily back into the chair, attacking his food. The clanking of spoons against plates was the only sound in the room.

Cora sat beside the window, the stirring of a slight breeze pushing through the screen. In the kitchen, the sound of porcelain against metal clanked through the house as Gal finished the dinner dishes, humming a gospel hymn. Cora strained to make out the words, comforted by the soothing alto of her voice.

She shifted restlessly in her chair, her spirit disturbed by her most recent dreams. She had been drawn to the glen again, the Knowing pulling her forward to find Clyde huddled in the grass. The light surrounding him was dimming, and she could see the darkness pushing against it, straining to escape. The morning found her staring at the ceiling, cold dread clutching her heart.

Sitting with the sun’s heat still clinging to the glass of their living room window, Cora felt the room’s temperature slowly fall, sending shivers through her body jangling her nerves. Her good leg and hand began to tremble simultaneously with enough force to shake the Afghan free of her shoulders. She stared down at it, unable to retrieve it.

Suddenly, she moaned and spittle came from her mouth as a glimmer of light near the door caught her attention. She cringed, her vulnerability exposed as she remained trapped within the confines of her wheelchair, waiting, defenseless, against whatever came.

The light shimmered and gathered itself into a wispy form, solidifying into the shape of a woman.

“Who you? Where I’m at?” The high-pitched screech reeked of the fear trapped in the residual remains of the woman who stood before her.

Cora recognized the horrified expression on her face immediately . . . the bulging, fear-filled eyes, the mangled throat, and the confusion.

“Calms yourself, child. I knows you all riled up right now.”

“Who you? Where I be at?”

The number of these women mixed among the dead coming to her had grown for almost eleven years. First, slowly, only two during the year Clyde killed Robert and Baby Doll. Then, every two or three months, there would be another one. Always women or girls. All garishly dressed and hard used by the world.

Over nine years, he had never gone without killing. There was always some new lost soul drifting in. Thirty women weighed down with the bitterness of life cut short, a brevity not of their own making. They haunted the slow, tedious minutes and hours of each day, inescapable.

She thought back to when he had stopped. She’d first noticed it not too long after Gal said she ran into Fannie in town with some cute little girl hanging onto her. When she recollected the time, it aligned with the news of Clyde’s marriage and the more than three months since anyone new had afflicted her.

Not too long after, Gal had come running in, filled with gossip from town, and told her they all had better pray for the mighty state of Mississippi because word was that was where Clyde and Mae had left for.

And then there was nothing. Month after month, and still nothing. The only newly dead are the result of old age, illness, or the suffering of life. They came to her searching for resolution or absolution with their loved ones or wandered in denial of their deaths. None were ushered across the threshold with any help from Clyde. No darkness draped their auras. Her connection with Clyde was inexplicably severed. She could no longer feel him for the first time since his birth had cursed her life.

The months bled into one another until they became six and then twelve. Cora had allowed herself to believe he had to be dead, taken out by a force more powerful than the evil that ran through him. She’d reasoned that only death could have kept him from killing. It was the blood that nourished him. He could not live without it, couldn’t control it. So, Cora let herself believe it was over. The light had achieved victory without her . . . until now . . . until this woman appeared.

Cora let her gaze rove over the woman. Her black skirt hugged her hips down to her knees where it flared, the black stockings with a seam running up the back, and the black patent leather stiletto heels. A wide belt cinched an impossibly tiny waist above the soft white silk blouse spotted with blood that she wore.

Her clothing made her look different from the rest, but the buck-eyed horror, the splashes of blood, and the hysterical denial that death had indeed claimed her marked her as the same. It was the commonality she shared with the others. Only the clothes she wore marked her as foreign to the South.

Gal glanced over at Cora for a half second, watching her lean forward and motion with her left hand, muttering. She sighed before returning her attention to the radio. She’d long ago become accustomed to Cora’s long, rambling sessions, where she mumbled and groaned to the air in front of her, sometimes for hours. It had bothered her at first when Cora started trying to talk again, making her jump and search the room for haunts and spooks.

The doctor said Cora’s brain was scrambled and would never be right, and they better thank God she could talk at all. After years of being as still as stone, she—like Joe—was grateful to have any parts of Miss Cora back, so long as she wasn’t just sitting in that chair like she used to. It didn’t matter that they barely understood her words.

The spirit before Cora wailed loudly, her mouth wide open, head whipping back and forth. She fell backward, her heels drumming against the floor and her hands reaching up to grasp an unseen assailant as she writhed beneath him.

“You going to have to stop all that caterwauling, Miss Ma’m. Ain’t nothing what can hurts you no more. You is dead,” Cora snapped. She had learned it was pointless to draw the truth out.

The years had drained compassion from her. It served no purpose other than prolonging her aggravation and needlessly extending the turmoil surrounding the experience. The words she spoke to the spirit rang clearly, unimpeded by the partial paralysis that twisted her body and speech in the natural world.

The woman’s scream cut off abruptly, chastised by Cora’s tone.

“Who you and where you from?”

A kaleidoscope of emotion flowed over her face. “Eva. Chicago,” her tear-choked voice whispered before she evaporated into nothingness.

Cora fell back against her chair and pounded her left fist on the arm of the wheelchair, startling Gal, who leaped up from the couch where she had settled after finishing the dishes. She rushed to her side.

“Miss Cora, you okay?” she asked nervously, grabbing the Afghan that had fallen to the floor. She smoothed the material over Cora’s shoulders, her words soft and soothing. Cora was building herself into a fit.

Cora grunted, struggling to force the words up through her mangled vocal cords, rocking in frustration until Gal grabbed her and forcefully pushed her until her back rested against the chair. “You gots to stop this, Miss Cora,” she cried. “You going to hurt yourself and me if you keeps it up.”

A voice rang inside Cora’s head, one that she had longed to hear, strong and familiar. “It’s time,” Mi’s disembodied words commanded.

The sounds of Gal and the radio faded as Cora slumped sideways, silence descending around her. She listened to the sound of her blood rushing through her veins, felt the snakes of power writhing under her skin, and watched the blinding light build against her closed eyelids.

The woman hadn’t said Clyde’s name, but Cora knew it was him. Knew by the darkness that shrouded the pale light of the dead woman’s aura. Her previous failures resonated deep within, and she felt a tear trickling down the left side of her face. It had come at last. She felt her power building, stronger than it had been in ten years.

Her work was not done. The respite was over. She relaxed into her chair, allowing Gal to wrap her in her Afghan before falling into a deep sleep. Behind her closed eyelids, she thrilled as her new power reached out through her dreams.

The light bent and shimmered around Cora as she stood mutely among the trees, her large frame shrouded in a simple calico dress that hung just above her ankles. The broad brim of a hat concealed her face from the boy and man seated in the grass, except for her eyes. She felt them furiously blazing as she looked from one to another.

Clyde inhaled deeply, his lungs fit to burst with the sweet, satisfying scent of the woods around him, making his head swim. He knew this place; knew it well. For a moment, beside him, he saw the specter of his young self hover with him on the edge of the water. The grass beneath him was dead and brown from his constant presence. His face turned up to the warmth of the sun. This was where he sought solace from the hateful words and stares that comprised his life.

The boy Clyde cocked his head to the side, listening for the familiar sounds of insects and frogs that normally chorused through the air, and found only deafening silence. It struck a chord of wrongness. Both Clydes listened intently, bodies leaning forward.

A twig snapped, and young Clyde turned his head, staring mournfully past him into the woods. Someone was coming, someone who was trying to creep up on them, someone who wanted to do them harm.

Clyde’s skin crawled, and he felt his shoulders squeeze with tension, his muscles contracting in preparation to flee. He waited, staring.

She was on him instantly, clinging to his back, one arm wrapped around his throat, both legs wound tightly about his waist as she fought to pull him backward, her other hand wielding a wickedly sharp blade pointed toward his throat.

Clyde bucked wildly, trying unsuccessfully to throw her off him, his hands grasping her muscular forearm and pulling. He struggled for air as she hung on. She couldn’t be this damned strong, his mind screamed; no way could she hold him.

Her hand slashed down on an angle, the knife plunging through the back of his hand.

His howl split the night air, causing young Clyde to pull his knees up to his chest and cry out, holding his wounded hand up to his chest, blood leaking from the gash in his hand. Clyde bent forward until he was almost doubled over, then rolled forward until she flipped over him and landed on her back. Her legs scissored around him before he could run, and he found himself still locked in her savage embrace with her staring into his face.

Cora stared up at him, her eyes green pebbles of burning hatred, and her lips pulled back in a snarl as she brought her blade upward to his throat.

“I’m coming for you,” she snarled. Cora smiled. Clyde was going to die.

He felt the sharp tip of the blade burn as it ripped into the tender skin of his throat, and the blood flowed out over her hand.

Clyde’s eyes flew open, rolling wildly, as he screamed into the stillness of the room. His face twisted and contorted, his body bucking as it had been in the dream, both hands reaching for his throat and searching for blood.

“No, no, Mama, help me!” he cried out as the images flashed fresh through his mind.

Mae sat up in bed, cowering away from him, her newborn fear asserting itself and demanding safety.

“NO! I AIN’T DYING,” Clyde shouted into the thick quiet of the room, plunging his hands between his thighs, locking them there, and struggling against himself.

Mae breathed deeply, fighting against her instincts to flee, and moved closer to him. She tried to calm his agitation, her hand circling the crown of his head and then dropping to his cheek, stroking gently.

“What’s wrong with you, honey?” she queried, her voice ice smooth as she attempted to comfort him. Clyde slapped her hand away and shoved, pushing so hard that she flew from the bed onto the floor. Air bellowed in and out through his open mouth, forcing her to scramble farther away. His protuberant eyes tracked her movement, the whites standing out in the darkness, stark against his skin. The darkness that was there, more often lately than not, swirled in their depths.

Mae scooted backward until her back was against the wall, using it to push herself upward until she stood. Her fingers slipped from the knob several times as she attempted to turn on the table lamp, flooding the room with light.

His eyes narrowed and slid over her, the darkness beginning to clear as he seemed to recognize the familiar contours of the room. His features slackened but remained guarded. She leaned forward across the short distance between the table and the bed. Reaching tremulously for his face, she let her fingertips graze his cheek and find their rhythm again.

This time, he permitted it. His breathing slowed as the minutes ticked past, the wild back-and-forth darting replaced by a steady, fixed glare. He began to calm down. His labored breathing slowed, and his muscles unclenched. Clyde blinked rapidly at her, recognition seeming to creep across his face for the first time since he awakened.

Easing herself back into the bed, Mae sat beside him, rubbing his back gently, thrilled he welcomed her touch. Daring to hope the old warmth between them was returning, she watched him pull his legs back up onto the bed. Mae lowered her body next to his, snuggling against his chest, lulled by the tranquil peace that lay tentatively between them.

“What was you dreaming?” she asked, scooting up to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Clyde stilled and moved away abruptly, turning and giving her his back.

“Wasn’t nothing. Just goes to sleep,” he said over his shoulder.

Mae tried to drape her arm over his back, rubbing his ear until she felt him relaxing again. “Sure it wasn’t no witch riding your chest?” she teased, attempting to lighten the mood again.

Clyde stiffened. She could not miss the rage signaling from him as the question hung in the air. When he spoke, his voice had gone cold. The warmth between them evaporated, retreating from her and sinking beneath the layers that had been building day after day, leaving this stranger in her bed . . . a man who terrified her.

“Turn off that damned light,” he muttered, silencing any further questions or conversations. “Only witch around here be Miss Ruby.”

Mae stretched out her arm, reaching to extinguish the light. The bed moved beneath her, dipping as Clyde turned back toward her. She heard the blow coming, whistling through the air before exploding against the side of her head.

She rolled from the bed and curled into herself—knees and head tucked to her chest, desperately attempting to protect herself—as he continued using his fist, leaning out of the bed to strike her body and arms. Mae waited for his rage to be spent, waited for him to pry her legs apart and drive into her. Tears poured onto the cotton of her nightgown as she choked on silent sobs.

The bed creaked and groaned as Clyde clamored back to his side of the mattress. Within a few minutes, his heavy snores filled the room.

Mae did not move. She remained on the floor, the pain throbbing with every beat of her heart while she stared out the window and waited, searching for the sun to bruise the sky.