Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (10 page)

“Kiss my royal ass,” she hissed.

He walked away.

“Bastard,” she muttered, now wide-awake.

‘The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly—from the draining, I suppose; and there he lies—has lain for sixteen years, wedged between two great stones. There's his watch and seals, and there's my gold-handled hunting-whip, with my name on: he took it away, without my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was seen.'

Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what came next. ‘Do you think he drowned himself?’ said Nancy, almost wondering that her husband should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been augured.

'No, he fell in,’ said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as if he felt some deep meaning in the fact. Presently he added: ‘Dunstan was the man that robbed Silas Marner.'

The blood rushed to Nancy's face and neck at this surprise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinship with crime as a dishonour.

'O Godfrey!’ she said, with compassion in her tone, for she had immediately reflected that the dishonour must be felt still more keenly by her husband.

'There was the money in the pit,’ he continued—'all the weaver's money. Everything's been gathered up, and they're taking the skeleton to the Rainbow. But I came back to tell you: there was no hindering it; you must know.’

“Crap,” she muttered aloud, then read to the end of the book. Sandra closed and clutched it to her breast, like a doting mother might embrace her child. And they all lived happily ever after. Except me—I mean Dunstan, she thought.

Tim did not know when Sandra came to bed, but he did know that she slept with him. About 3:00 o'clock in the morning he awoke with an erection. He reached for her, fondled her left breast and started to move closer.
AIDS
, he thought. Where did she put the condoms? Masturbation? I won't do it, damn it. He went to the bathroom and sat on the commode. How else can a man with an erection urinate without spraying the floor? he thought.

“I like Mrs. Dollar, Sandra, Sandy, very much, but I'm not exactly certain why. She seems to trust me, but not particularly need me for anything. I have a feeling that she is not what she seems to be, has some inner conflict, some struggle that has not yet revealed itself."

He paused and looked at the neat, broad strokes on the lined page. He was pleased with the new roller-ball pen recently purchased at the Discount House. He liked its even free-flowing ink, and the size seemed to fit his fingers better than any other pen he ever owned. He smiled, remembering that the first journal he wrote, when only 12 years old, was done in a childish scrawl and with pencil stubs.

He continued his journal entry. “Mr. Dollar, Timothy, Tim, is another matter. He needs me, knows he needs me, must trust me but seems reluctant to do so. He does appear to be a generous sort though. He's just as confused as his wife, but he, at least, admits it."

“To be honest, I like them both, and that bothers me. Mr. Harlow was a son-of-a-bitch. He used me and I used him. It was a fair trade. If they are going to treat me fairly, respect me as a man of value, I can't very well continue the charade. The time may be fast approaching when I must remove the makeup. I've played the character so long. I wonder if I remember how to play myself?"

He reread the entry and added, “It frightens me to admit that she's the only married woman I've ever known who turns me on. I've got to watch that."

He closed the spiral notebook, placed it on top of a stack of similar, now complete, journals, and pulled on his cap. It was time to mow the Dollar's grass.

Sandra stood beside the Cavalier, keys in hand, and searched for the source of the noise that was spoiling the otherwise beautiful October morning. She felt good, extremely good, for a change. Tim was not in bed when she woke up. She ate breakfast alone and enjoyed a long, hot shower. The water beating down on her body felt good. She could still smell the clean scent of Ivory soap on her skin. She dressed in the other woman's clothes—her clothes now. Everything fit except perhaps the slacks were a little tight in the crotch. She waved to Bobby as he came over a hill on the riding mower. He waved back.

I wonder who he really is. she thought. He is certainly not the simpleton his staccato, incomplete sentences would indicate. She sat in the driver's seat and reviewed the location of the turn signals, light switch, windshield wipers, and radio knobs. Bobby had showed these to her on the way back from Charlotte, but they were located in strange places. She wanted to make sure she remembered.

Tim climbed out of bed at five o'clock, made the coffee, went through his morning ritual and spent three hours sorting and reading his uncle's papers. He needed a break. He stood at the front window of his study and watched Bobby on the riding mower disappear over the hill which sloped down to the small pond to the right of the house. Then Sandra came into view.

God she's beautiful, he thought. He took inventory: shoulder length honey colored hair which in the sunlight looked golden; ruddy complexion; light blue eyes; beautiful un-plucked eyebrows somewhat darker than the hair on her head; thin rosy-brown lips the color of her nipples; thin, graceful long nose, but not too long; high cheek bones; tiny graceful neck. The contour of the light blue blouse, with two top buttons unfastened revealed just a hint of breasts. The blue slacks cut into her buttocks, leaving little to the imagination. He adjusted his jockey shorts to accommodate his erection more comfortably.

Why was she standing beside the car door? He was too hard on her last night, he realized. He was afraid of her. She was more woman than he could handle. She had been with lots of men; his experience was limited to one woman. She could destroy him. She must go, but he wanted her to stay. Why? Sex? She said she was the best sex toy he could buy. Maybe, maybe not, now that he was wealthy.

Why is she just sitting in the car? he wondered. She's worried about the test results. Of course she is. So am I. Oh God let her be all right. Was he praying? He hadn't done that in years. Now she's driving away.

“Be careful,” he softly said. “Good luck, my Sandy."

My Sandy? He shook his head, returned to the desk and tried to concentrate, but every hour or so he looked for her through the study window. When she hadn't returned by noon, he became very concerned. Oh God. He realized he was praying again. Don't let her do anything stupid. We can fight this thing together. For the next hour, he could not concentrate on his paperwork. His attention kept returning to the possible meaning of the last sentence of his unrehearsed prayer.

Sandra felt as if she were seeing Dot for the first time as she drove into the business district. The view from the driver's seat is different, she thought. She parked in front of the Dot Pharmacy because that is where Tim usually parked. “Oh boy,” she said aloud as she slipped the keys into her small purse. “Here we go."

Having no telephone, she had not been able to make an appointment, but Dr. Honneycutt had told her to come back on Wednesday for the test results. She had lied to Tim. She told him that her attackers used condoms. The Van Fans had, but the dozens of “customers” at her drumming out gang bang had not. The image of forcing her tongue into the bleeding vagina of one extremely obese woman flashed in her mind. She shuddered.

“There are several patients in front of you. Why didn't you make an appointment?” asked the receptionist.

“We don't have a phone yet."

“Well, have a seat, but it will be at least an hour before Dr. Honneycutt can see you."

She sat in the plastic chair and surveyed the room. There were three women, one very pregnant, and one elderly man. They each nodded and she returned the gesture, pleased that none of them wanted to strike up a conversation. She picked up a magazine, idly flipped through the pages and stopped. The title of the article that captured her attention was, “Create Your Perfect Lifetime Living Plan.” She paid no attention to the author, but read each word carefully, often going back to reread a paragraph to be sure she had gotten the full meaning.

Someone touched her arm. She looked up. The receptionist impatiently said, “The doctor will see you now."

The visit was brief. All the tests were negative, the doctor told her. She was to continue to take the prescribed antibiotic for another week. She paid little attention to anything else the doctor said. She had a new lease on life—no HIV virus, no venereal diseases, and the prospect of developing a Lifetime Living Plan. She wanted to get out of the doctor's office. She had things to do.

“Are you and Mr. Dollar still planning to leave us shortly?” asked Dr. Honneycutt.

“I'm pretty sure he has decided to stay."

“I have an unresolved debt to Mr. Harlow—to Tim now."

Sandra did not notice the look of disgust on the doctor's face.

“Mr. Harlow brought me to Dot when the former doctor died. I had just completed my residency at Bowman Gray School of Medicine. He advanced me enough money to get the practice started."

“Tim is going over the paperwork now. I'm sure he will get in touch with you. Doctor, there is a magazine article I was reading in your waiting room. Could I borrow it for a few days?"

“The pharmacy and grocery store both sell magazines. Perhaps you can find a copy there."

Bitch, thought Sandra.

She started to swipe the magazine on her way out, but instead noted its name and the fact that it was the current issue.

The pharmacy did not have the magazine, but the old druggist, leering at her over the counter, told her she could order a telephone connection and a subscription to the
Charlotte Observer
at the Post Office next door. Sandra had never heard of a Post Office selling anything other than stamps, but found that the druggist's advice was correct. The dignified looking male clerk explained that this was a contract Post Office, not actually a USPS office.

“How about a subscription to the
Dot Courier
?” the clerk asked.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what the
Dot Courier
is."

“Weekly newspaper,” he replied. “All the Dot gossip delivered to your mailbox each Thursday. My wife and I run it, but she does all the work.” He smiled broadly as he gestured to his right.

Sandra followed the gesture with her eyes and saw a pleasant, plainly dressed middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk that held a placard, which read, “Editor."

“I'm Joe Sizemore and that's my wife Diane,” the clerk continued.

Sandra met the approaching lady halfway and shook hands.

“We don't print all the news that's fit to print,” Diane joked. “We print all the news we can find, whether its fit or not."

Diane took Sandra by the arm and moved her to the newspaper side of the office. “Our readers like articles about newcomers to our community."

“I would prefer that you interview Tim,” Sandra protested. “It looks like he, we, will stay in Dot, but I don't think he has definitely decided yet."

Sandra liked the newspaper lady, but she was totally unprepared to answer her questions. Diane was persistent, and Sandra at last resorted to the standard husband/wife ruse. “I must get back to the house. Tim will be worried."

“Hold on a minute,” Joe called out as she finally reached the door. “There are a couple of forms you need to sign and I need a few bucks to make the creditors happy."

Sandra fished the necessary payment from her purse, signed the forms, and slipped into her purse the document given to her."

“Your phone line should be working by five o'clock. Have a nice day."

Sandra started towards the Cavalier, but decided to get a sandwich at Dot's Diner before continuing her errands. The BLT with chips on the side was delicious, and the Pepsi was a welcome change from Tim's diet colas. She became aware that someone was watching her and as inconspicuously as possible surveyed the customers. Sitting alone in the last booth was a nice looking young man wearing a navy blue suit. He looked vaguely familiar. When their eyes met he nodded and smiled thinly. She smiled pleasantly in return.

“Who is that young fella in the back booth?"

Dottie glanced over her shoulder and replied, “That's our preacher, John Baxter. He's single. He came to us right out of the seminary at Wake Forest. I can't say as I think much of his preaching. He ain't lived long enough to have sinned enough to know how to preach about it,” she joked.

Sandra drove the Cavalier down the main street, looking for a place to turn around. At the end of the row of businesses, she pulled into the parking lot of the Dot Baptist Church, but before exiting the lot, she paused for a better look.

The church held new meaning for her since she heard Tim say that Uncle Pete paid to rebuild it after the old structure burned. It was small, but beautiful in its simplicity. On impulse she parked the car and entered the sanctuary. There were a dozen pews on each side of the center aisle. A simple lectern stood at the center of the platform. To the left and right behind the pulpit stand were oversized wooden chairs that could not possibly be comfortable. Behind that was the choir loft. Sandra counted eighteen chairs. To the left of the platform was an upright piano and to the right was a small organ. Sunlight through the stained glass windows danced on the polished surface of the pews and added a supernatural beauty to the manmade objects.

As she turned to leave, the door opened and the young preacher entered. Sandra recognized the look on his face and took a step backwards.

He went straight to the point. “I know who you are."

“Seems like everybody in Dot knew who we were the instant we arrived. Everyone was expecting Pete Harlow's nephew."

“I know who you really are,” he said moving towards her, eyeing her crotch.

Alarmed, she wanted to run past him to the still open door, but her body would not respond.