Take Me There (11 page)

until the fateful day

time

folds its tired hands

and

stops.

I
T’S ALREADY SEVEN O’CLOCK WHEN
W
ADE AND I PASS A
sign that says
QUINCY: POPULATION 700
.

“Damn,” Wade says. “There was more people than that in our freshman class.”

The heat of this place is ten times worse than California, because it’s wet and sticks to every pore in your body. There’s a sound outside like a pulsing electric hum, and I remember the insects that used to come out on summer nights. My grandmother called them Sick Katies.

“Main Street,” Wade says, reading the sign. “Want me to turn here?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking there should be more to the town but realizing this is it. I thought after eleven years they might have put in a Dairy Queen or a Super Wal-Mart, but the place looks just like it did when I left. It’s like a time warp.

Wade turns, and the Mustang hobbles down a brick paved street. There’s the Baptist church and the post office, the Ford
dealership, the drugstore, and the grocery store no bigger than Gomez’s garage.

“Pull over here,” I tell him, pointing to the drugstore.

“Why?”

“I need to ask for directions.” All of a sudden the idea of visiting my grandmother is making my stomach do flip-flops. The familiarity of this place is unsettling. Memories tug at me, and I can almost see my mother walking out of the grocer’s with bread and eggs.

“Why do you need directions? I thought you used to live with the old lady,” Wade says as he parks in front of the drugstore.

“It was a long time ago.” I get out of the car. “We’ll be right back,” I inform Baby Face.

Bells hanging off the door handle jingle as we walk in. The entire right side of the store is filled with over-the-counter drugs. On the left is an old-fashioned soda fountain with red vinyl bar stools permanently attached to the ground. A group of old men, farmers by the look of them, sit at a table playing cards.

Three teenage boys wearing coveralls, with sunburns from the eyebrows down and hair flattened from grimy baseball hats sitting on the counter, share a basket of tortilla chips and drink out of huge red plastic cups. They are covered in dirt and sweat and look like they’ve just finished a long day’s work. A red-haired boy puts about fourteen packets of sugar into his drink and stirs.

Wade and I sit next to them on a couple of stools as a plump girl with blond curls and a red apron hands us menus. She smiles at Wade. “You boys from out of town?”

“Downey, Cal—”

“Arizona,” I say.

The timer on a toaster oven dings, and the girl goes to retrieve a boxed pizza, which she slices and puts in front of the boys sitting next to us. “Thanks, Dorie,” says the redhead.

“Don’t tell people where we’re from,” I whisper to Wade. “What if someone comes lookin’ for us?”

“Ain’t nobody comin’ lookin’ for us in this town. I guaran-damn-tee you that.”

“What can I get you fellas?” Dorie asks us.

“A couple of Cokes,” I reply. “And can you tell me how to get to Levida Dawson’s place?”

“Levida. Don’t think I know anybody named Levida.”

I can’t believe it. With only seven hundred people in the town, she’s got to know my grandmother, unless … is it possible she’s moved away? Maybe she wasn’t the woman on the phone.

“Oh, sure you know her, Dorie,” says one of the boys. “A. Devil Dawson.”

“Oh, you mean the Devil Woman,” says Dorie. “Sure, I know her. Everybody knows the Devil Woman. Lives out on Farm Road 67. Crazy as all get-out. Plays the organ at my daddy’s church, even though we’ve all warned him she’s possessed.” She turns to Wade again. “My daddy’s the preacher at First Baptist, if you’re ever in need of a church home.”

Wade smiles at the word
home
, as if he’s just been invited to move in.

“Why you lookin’ fer the Devil Woman?” the redhead asks, swiveling on his stool to face us.

“We’re traveling Bible salesmen,” I answer.

He laughs. “Well, y’all be sure you hold them Bibles up nice
and high to protect yer heads. The Devil owns a twelve gauge and she ain’t afraid to use it. She don’t cater much to visitors, either.”

“She don’t cater to nobody but that damn pig of hers,” says the black-haired boy sitting next to him. He turns to me. “She took her son on a five-state shootin’ spree when he was barely ten years old. That’s what turned him into a cold-blooded killer.”

“No, it ain’t. It’s ’cause she kept him locked up in that barn, feedin’ him pig slop.”

Wade’s eyes grow as big as two silver dollars.

“Don’t listen to them,” Dorie tells him, sliding to-go cups filled with soda in front of us. “Red and Dakota just like to spin tales.” Wade pulls out his wallet to pay her, but she touches his hand, smiles, and says, “It’s on the house.”

“I ain’t spinnin’ no tale,” says Dakota. “They’re gonna fry D.J. Dawson’s ass over in Huntsville in ten days, at six o’clock in the p.m.”

“They don’t fry nobody’s ass no more,” Red corrects him. “Not since they retired Old Sparky to the Texas Prison Museum. They’re gonna give him a lethal injection. Put him to sleep. He deserves a helluva lot worse for what he done.”

I’m suddenly dripping in sweat. Someone opens the door, and the buzzing sound from outside fills the room. I drink the soda in one long gulp to keep from catching on fire, and then I stand to leave. “Come on, Wade.”

“What did he do?” Wade asks Red, making no move to get up from the bar stool.

“Killed a cop. Tornado T.’s daddy. Tornado, you okay?”

Only then do I notice that the third boy, a husky flax-haired kid, has taken all the tortilla chips from the basket and mangled
them into dust while we’ve been talking. He stares straight ahead, breathing hard, like he wants to hurt somebody. He turns to look at me, and his eyes are cold and dark.

“You idiots,” Dorie tells Red and Dakota. “Ain’t you got no feelin’s a’tall?”

“We gotta go,” I say, grabbing Wade by the collar and pulling him out of the drugstore. By the time we get into the Mustang I am shaking so badly I can barely drive.

“That was your father they were talkin’ about,” says Wade.

“Yeah.”

“Is he really a cold-blooded killer?”

I take a long, slow breath, trying to steady my nerves. “I don’t know. Do you wanna go home?”

“Home?”

“Back to California. You don’t have to stay here. California’s a big place. You could hide from Eight Ball somewhere up north. It might get dangerous here.”

“It’s dangerous everywhere.”

“Colorado, then. Start over.”

He looks out the window as if he’s thinking it over. Remembering California, maybe. He finally says, “I can’t do that, Dylan.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re the only family I got.” He smiles at me, and I know we are in this together until the bitter end. Even if it would be better for us both if things were otherwise.

I find Farm Road 67, a dirt trail heading off into nowhere. The Mustang bumps along, leaving a cloud of dust behind us.

We pass a brick house with a white picket fence, a shack
that leans to one side, and a double-wide mobile home. Then I spot a mailbox up ahead with the name
DAWSON
on the side. I come to a stop and see that the mailbox is full of bullet holes. The name
LEVIDA
has been crossed out and replaced with
A. DEVIL
scrawled in red paint.

“Do you think she really has a shotgun?” asks Wade.

“Everybody out here has a shotgun,” I tell him as I pull onto the gravel drive leading to a farmhouse, about fifty yards off the road. We see a series of signs painted on planks of old barn wood. Wade reads them out loud as we pass. “‘Keep out,’ ‘No trespassing,’ ‘Reporters go home,’ ‘Enter at your own risk and suffer the consequences.’”

We’re about twenty feet from the house when I hear the blast of a shotgun and feel something hit the front of the Mustang. “Shit!” I yell, spinning the car around as fast as I can, no easy task on the narrow dirt road. Another round of shot hits the back end. I try to race back to the farm road.

I hear an engine and look back to see a tractor roaring toward us.

“Look out!” Wade yells, as the tractor rams us from behind, scoops up the rear end of the Mustang, and starts shoving us toward a ditch. “Damn! She really is crazy!”

“Why can’t you people leave me in peace!” yells the woman behind the wheel of the John Deere.

My car goes nose first into a ditch. Wade and Baby Face and I scramble to get out, crawling back up the ditch to find ourselves facing the barrel of the shotgun. The woman from the tractor is standing in the dirt with her finger on the trigger. She’s wearing men’s overalls and has wiry gray hair going in twenty directions. There’s a big fat pig beside her.

“I don’t give no interviews.”

The pig raises its snout and snorts as if to emphasize her point.

“Please!” I say, raising my hands in the air. “We’re not reporters.”

“Oh, yeah? If you ain’t reporters, then who are ya?”

“I’m Dylan Dawson.”

“What did you say?” She closes one eye and aims straight for my head.

“I’m Dylan Dawson,” I repeat, shaking so badly I fear I’ll piss on myself.

“Horseshit. Dylan Dawson is in a maximum security prison.”

“I’m his son. I’m Dylan Junior.”

The old woman’s body goes slack. She drops her shoulders, puts the shotgun at her side, and turns pale, as if she’s just seen a ghost. I’m not sure if she’s going to cry, faint, or have a stroke.

“Well, boy, you got timin’. That’s all I can say.” And with that statement, Levida turns around and starts walking back toward the farmhouse. The pig grunts at us, then turns to follow her.

Wade and I look at the tractor the old woman has left in the middle of the road. Look at the Mustang sitting in the ditch. Stare at each other, wondering what to do. It’s clear we aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“You might as well come on up to the house,” Levida yells, never breaking stride or looking back. “Guess you’ll be expectin’ me to feed you and give you a place to stay.”

“Is that an invitation?” whispers Wade.

“As close as we’re gonna get.”

I WOKE UP AND LOOKED AROUND, TRYING TO GET MY BEAR
ings. Heard the sound of the ocean, a dog whine. Realized I was sleeping on the front porch of Jess’s beach house with Baby Face next to me. Looked up and saw Jess standing over me.

“What are you doing out here?” Jess asked. She had the afghan wrapped around her shoulders.

I tried to piece together how I’d ended up there after my talk with Mitch. Had I gotten drunk and blacked out? I could tell from the soft blue light of morning that dawn was just breaking.

“Why didn’t you come back? You said you were going to come back. I’ve been waiting all night for you.”

“I did come back. I’m right here,” I said, sitting up. It suddenly started coming together in my mind. How I’d driven up and down the Pacific Coast Highway till well after midnight, nearly talking myself into buying a case of beer, but getting more and more worried about leaving Jess alone. Finally
deciding to spend the night on her front porch so I could keep an eye on her place without the embarrassment of her seeing me cry, which I’d done most of the night.

“Come inside,” she told me.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not somebody you should be hangin’ around with.”

“Why?”

I told her about my father being on death row in Texas; my mother, who wouldn’t talk about it; and my uncle, who had set me up with a job he knew was illegal. Words came gushing out of me. I finally got through to the end of it. “Trouble just seems to follow me. You’d be better off not getting too close.”

“Oh, Dylan,” she said, kneeling down beside me and touching the crude blue cross on my right hand. “I know you’ve been in trouble. I know your family situation is bad.” She took my hand in hers and squeezed it. “But I also know that you are the most decent person I’ve ever met. You’re the only real and genuine person that I know.”

There was a light in her eyes that reached all the way to the corners of my soul, telling me that I could start over. That I could leave my past behind and be worthy of a girl like Jess. It was like a small explosion shaking me all the way down to my roots.

She pulled me to my feet. Tilted her head up toward mine. For a moment I thought she was going to kiss me, but she didn’t. Instead she smiled and said, “Now come inside, silly.”

“I can’t,” I said, looking at my watch. “I gotta go to work.”

“Tonight, then? Promise me you’ll be back tonight.”

“I promise.”

When I got to work, I was surprised to see Wade sitting up front, answering the phones. It made me wonder about his weekend with the BSB. Whatever had happened, it was bad enough to make him come back to the garage.

“You didn’t come home last night,” he said.

I punched my time card. “Won’t be coming home for a while.”

“Your mom left.”

I spun around to face him. “What are you talking about?”

“Your uncle Mitch took her to Texas.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe she would leave the state without even saying good-bye.

“He told me he was bringin’ her to his place so he could take care of her. She didn’t look right. Is somethin’ goin’ on?”

“No,” I hurried back to the garage before he could ask me any more questions.

The day was a roller coaster of emotions. When I thought about my mother, I felt guilt and anger. When I thought about my father, I felt anger and dread. When I thought about Jess, all I wanted was to forget about everybody else.

By the time three o’clock rolled around and I was clocking out, I felt exhausted.

I ended up at the probation office, pacing back and forth in front of Mr. Grey’s desk. “I appreciate the gravity of your circumstances,” he told me. “I can’t promise you anything, but if you’ll get these forms filled out and return them to me as soon as possible, I’ll try to push it through juvenile court so you can get permission to visit your father.”