Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors (30 page)

Grandma Fletcher followed Rosie’s eyes and saw the blurry markings on the wall she’d dismissed earlier.
 
She stumbled forward grudgingly, the images coming into focus with each painful step until finally they were seen in all their demented clarity.
 
A montage of apparently inter-linked vignettes assaulted her from the child-like drawings of her granddaughter, each scene framed by zigzag multicolored ovals.
 
Two stick-like figures starred in each.
 

One scarlet, large and looming.
 

The other pink, small and fragile.

In one, the larger held the smaller by its hair, legs far above the ground.
 
Even though it was only a stick figure, Grandma Fletcher could make out the struggling pain experienced by the smaller pink figure with the impossible angles of the stick arms and stick legs.

In another, the scarlet figure stood hands empirically on hips.
 
A dark colored three-dimensional square contained the pink one with knees drawn up.
 
The head was lowered pitifully as the body, even in its cramped position, was too big for the confines.

In another, the pink figure was prone, while the larger figure kneeled above holding what must have been a cigar, the orange tip hovering menacingly above the smaller stick figure.
 
Thin tendrils of smoky gray color curled from the tip of the cigar and the dozen orange colored spots on the pink figure’s flattened back.

In yet another, the larger figure struck the smaller with a long supple-looking red strap, as the pink figure kneeled on all fours, head down, back pinstriped with thin red bands.
 
To Grandma Fletcher, it was as if she could see the stick figure’s shoulders shake with the pain and desperation of the moment.

In the last, and the one that fixated Rosie’s entire attention, the small stick figure’s head was buried deep in the broad crotch of the large scarlet figure whose arms were outstretched, head lolling back on a thin neck.

With a final agonizing peel, Rosie collapsed to the carpet, the vestiges of her scream tapering into nothing.
 
Sweet Little Piggy stopped her patting and looked at her Grandma.

“
Amama
, lady sleep,” came the
lispy
voice, confusion and concern both coloring her tone.

Grandma Fletcher shook herself out of her momentary shock and went into motion, a look of loving irritation towards her granddaughter.
 
This had happened before.
 
She didn’t know why she hadn’t been ready for it.
 
She just prayed that the damage could still be repaired.

The other children had been picked up half-an-hour ago—explanations and promises exchanged with the concerned mothers.
 
Jenny Mae sat in front of the television, her arms wrapped tightly around the stuffed kitten, the girl’s eyes as glassy as the cat’s.
 
She seemed to be staring through the screen—seeing something else.
 
Her clothes had been changed into some cast-offs that Grandma Fletcher had collected in case of accidents.
 
Some of the children came to her with nothing but what they wore.
 
They always left with more, thanks to the charity of a kind young woman at the St. Vincent De Paul store, who, once a month, dropped an overflowing box by the apartment.

Sweet Little Piggy knelt over a piece of paper on the long oak coffee table, carefully drawing an intricate flower, her tongue stuck firmly in the corner of her mouth.
 
She was oblivious to her Grandma who sat on the side of the couch, dabbing a wet washcloth along Rosie’s forehead.
 
The room smelled of pine oil, the wall scrubbed clean of the offending images.

Rosie moaned, her head moving slowly from side-to-side as she came to.
 
Grandma Fletcher lifted her hand up quickly as Rosie rose up, startled, a scream poised on her lips.
 
The washcloth fell across her face and onto her lap.
 
Her eyes, momentarily unfocused, sharpened and went straight for the wall.
 
She searched for several seconds then fell back, a sigh escaping her lips.
 
She turned her head sideways and looked at Sweet Little Piggy who stared back at her with her triangular pink eyes.

“It’s okay,” said Sweet Little Piggy.
 
“It’s okay.”

Piggy returned to her coloring.
 
The creature’s ugliness ignored, she concentrated on the paper.
 
Rosie watched as the girl’s steady hands finished drawing an orange-hued flower.
 
With a pig-like snort, the girl finished and handed the paper to Rosie, who automatically held out a hand to receive it.

A timid smile crept across Rosie’s face.
 
She was amazed by the picture’s intricate beauty.
 
Each petal and stamen were exquisite in every detail.
 
It could have been a photo, so complete was it in its perfection.

“For you,” said Sweet Little Piggy forming the words slowly.

She glanced at her Grandma quickly who responded with a smile.

Sweet Little Piggy immediately began drawing another, her hand moving the violet crayon in the swift, sure strokes of a master.
 
As Rosie watched, Grandma Fletcher spoke.

“Sweet Little Piggy is very special.
 
The doctors say she has a perfect memory.
 
She can see
somethin
’ once and it’s in her head forever, they say.
 
Her
drawin’s
are perfect and sometimes, we send them into contests.
 
They always win.
 
It helps with the rent, you know.
 
Now, what you saw when you came in was another thing altogether.
 
A gift of sorts.”

Rosie jerked her attention to Grandma Fletcher, the previous fear returning in a flushed rush.

“Now, Now.
 
Shush with that.
 
There’s
nothin
’ to be a afraid of,” she said, cupping Rosie’s cheek in her large black hand.

Rosie’s gaze returned to Sweet Little Piggy’s artwork, which was already halfway complete.
 
The girl now drew the inner surface of the flower, creating tiny delicate veins, each a complex study in flawlessness.
 
The small African flower almost seemed to move to the fictional wind of the image, petals quivering with their ambition.

“Now, I can’t explain what she does when she draws them other things.
 
It’s like she’s someone else.
 
The doctors say it’s on account of what she went through when she was a child…when her mother died.
 
And her father,” she paused, “... died.
 
But them doctors don’t know that these things Sweet Little Piggy does is true things.
 
And they’ll never find out, either.
 
They’d just as sure lock her up and study her.”

Grandma Fletcher stared a moment at Jenny Mae.
 
“Poor, poor girl.
 
You were right to leave, to get her away from him.”

Sweet Little Piggy handed Rosie the picture she’d been working on.
 
This one was a violet, as perfect as the other.
 
Beautiful.

“For you,” she said again, quicker this time, her mouth remembering the form.

Rosie accepted the picture, her eyes finally clear of fear.
 
Her face had lost its tension.
 
The trembling of her lower jaw had stilled.
 
She looked into Grandma Fletcher’s eyes, pleading.

“I never knew.
 
I really didn’t.
 
I thought he just did them to me,” she wiped her nose with a sleeve causing Grandma Fletcher to hand her a tissue she plucked from the right front pocket of her housecoat.
 
“I mean, I knew.
 
Just not all of it.
 
Not…”

“There, there,” said Grandma Fletcher.
 
“I see no reason to get into that again.
 
It’s over.
 
All over, now.
 
You take Jenny Mae back to the Center and get yourself
somethin
’ to eat.
 
I expect her here every day for awhile, right.
 
And on Wednesdays we go to see the special doctor at the University.
 
It’s free and we will take Jenny Mae with us.
 
The sooner we get her some help, the better she will be.
 
Right?”
 
It wasn’t a question.

Rosie accepted another picture from Sweet Little Piggy, this one a Black-Eyed Susan.
 
She stared into the hard, determined eyes of Grandma Fletcher and nodded.

A few moments later, they were at the door.

“Tomorrow then, Right?
 
And you, Jenny Mae, we will see tomorrow,” said Grandma Fletcher holding a thick old hand out to the girl.

The child looked at the old woman, eyes still glassy, but a ghost of a smile hidden behind tight lips.

Grandma Fletcher unlocked the deadbolts and removed the chain.
 
She turned, winked at Jenny Mae then turned the knob.

The door rebounded viciously, striking her on the side of the head.
 
Blood erupted as she grunted in pain.
 
The old woman sagged to the floor, unconscious, her glasses crushed under the black military boots of the attacker.
 
A looming figure propelled the door inwards.

The man kicked her roughly out of the way and slammed the door shut.
 
Then he spun and brought a hand across Rosie’s face, propelling her into her daughter, both sprawled to the ground.

“Bitch.
 
Did you think you could get away?
 
I told you I’d track you down.”

He was tall, a dark plaid wool coat over wide shoulders.
 
His long hair was pulled tight into a ponytail that poked out from under the back of a cap that said
Dicky’s
Auto
.
 
His starched
 
white T-shirt was tucked into well fitting blue jeans.
 
Although clean shaven, his face was scarred with pits of old acne.
 
He spit the words from thick ugly lips.

Rosie struggled to stand, but reeled back as another punch landed and sent her once again, into her daughter.
 

Her husband launched another booted foot, this one glancing off her back.

“Leave me alone, you bastard!” she screamed, pushing Jenny Mae protectively into the center of the room.

Dicky
reached down and picked her up by the hair, jerking her head backwards, arching her back impossibly.

“I’m done with you.
 
You hear that, Bitch.
 
You and me are quits, but you will not have my daughter.”
 
He laughed.
 
“You are so stupid.
 
It was so easy.
 
I knew your bitch-friend Christina had told you about that place.
 
Hell, she threatened me she would take you there often enough.”
 
He hurled her against the TV.
 
“Come here, sweetheart,” he said switching his voice to syrup, a hand out to Jenny Mae.

A mewling noise began down deep in her throat rapidly erupting into a long drawn-out
no
.

“It’s okay, mister,” came a voice from his left.

He turned and saw Sweet Little Piggy, who approached smiling, staring up into his face.

“Fuck me.
 
What den of freaks did you bring my daughter into?” he asked, disgust replacing anger.

He swung a hard right hand at Sweet Little Piggy, but was stunned as her arm came up and caught his, just below the wrist.
 
He tugged, but found his arm firmly trapped in the girl’s powerful grip.
 
He watched as the fat albino girl reached up with her other hand and touched his chest and closed her eyes. She began to sing, “Stick men, stick men, my little stick men.”

He screamed with the impossibility of it all as he lashed out with his free hand and hit her once, twice, in the center of the face.
 
Crimson blood erupted from the wounds and flowed down her white skin.
 
The last blow freed him and sent Sweet Little Piggy tumbling back against the wall.
 
He wiped the blood from his fist on the side of his jeans and advanced on his daughter.
 
He picked her up by the waist and turned to his wife.