Twisted Tales (17 page)

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Authors: Brandon Massey

BOOK: Twisted Tales
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The blackness on the screen appeared to be shifting, congealing into ... something. Murky images flashed on the display, and ghostly lights flickered, too.
“Mary ... listen ...”
Terror poured through her veins.
Shaking, she bent, snagged the power cord, and ripped it out of the socket.
The voices fell silent, and the screen became a featureless black.
She exhaled.
“Grandma, why’d you unplug the computer?” Terrell asked. He came inside, holding a dripping toothbrush. “Did you find any of those obittiaries?”
“No,” she said, not bothering to correct his mispronunciation of her prized obits. She wanted to run out of the room, but that would only scare her grandson, so she calmly pushed away from the desk and walked away. “I’ve gotta go now, baby. You finish getting ready for school, you hear?”
She didn’t look back at the computer on her way out. She didn’t want to think about what she’d seen and heard.
Because she didn’t know what it had been.
 
Mary left her daughter’s house and began driving home, a frown carved deep in the furrows of her face.
Her only recourse, she realized, was to wait until eight o’clock, when she could call the newspaper, complain about the missing obits, and demand redelivery of a correct paper. She would not consider Denise’s comment—
maybe no one had died
—because someone had always died.
As she drove, she noticed a familiar figure walking on the opposite side of the road, coming her way. It was a slender black woman with silver, shoulder-length hair, dressed in a powder blue jogging suit. It was Lillie Mae, a longtime friend. They used to work at the VA together.
Mary hadn’t talked to or seen Lillie Mae in at least two weeks. The last she’d heard, Lillie Mae had been sick with pneumonia. What was she doing out this morning, strutting like a spring chicken?
Mary tapped the horn. Lillie Mae saw her, waved, and smiled.
There was something odd about her smile, Mary thought. Something secretive about it. As if she’d caught Lillie Mae daydreaming about something naughty.
Mary frowned. Lowering her window, she slowed the car.
“Hey, girl,” Mary said. “What you doing out here walking? I heard you was sick.”
“I
was
sick, Mary.” Lillie Mae approached the car.
“But I feel much, much better now, praise God.”
“Praise Him,” Mary said, automatically. She eyed Lillie Mae closer. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, but there was something different about Lillie Mae, and it wasn’t only the mysterious smile that her friend wore.
“You seen the obits today?” Mary asked.
Lillie Mae shook her head, slowly, as if she was in a daze. Her eyes, Mary noticed, appeared to be unfocused, too.
Lillie Mae gave another enigmatic smile. “Let the living tend to the dead. It’s their duty.”
“Amen,” Mary said, and nodded sagely, but she didn’t know what in the world Lillie Mae was talking about. She wondered if Lillie Mae had a fever and had gotten out of bed and started walking without her family knowing her whereabouts. She was tempted to place her palm against Lillie Mae’s forehead and check her for a temperature—but the idea of touching her friend was ... well, creepy. And Mary couldn’t figure out why.
A draft seemed to have slipped inside the car and wrapped its cold arms around her.
Lillie Mae was still smiling.
“You sure you’re okay, Lillie Mae?” Mary asked. “Maybe I should give you a ride back home.”
“I gotta finish my walk,” Lillie Mae said.
Secretly, Mary was relieved. Although she’d made the offer to take Lillie Mae home, the idea of the woman riding next to her in the car made her skin tighten.
“When I die, Mary, I want you to make sure folks know,” Lillie Mae said. “Will you do that for me?”
“Don’t talk like that now, girl,” Mary said. “The way you up and walking ’round you got plenty of time left.”
“Remember what I said.” Lillie Mae wagged her finger, and began to walk away.
The old girl was sick, Mary thought. Sick, and she didn’t even know it. She wasn’t making any kind of sense.
She began to drive again. She glanced in her rearview mirror, to see if Lillie Mae was walking okay. But the woman was gone.
 
Still thinking about her weird encounter with Lillie Mae, Mary arrived home.
She’d hoped, a bit naively, that a new, revised paper would have been delivered and would be waiting in her driveway. But there was nothing.
The clock read seven thirty. A half hour until the newspaper office opened. She decided to pass the time by reviewing yesterday’s obituaries, for which some follow-up was still needed. The background of Mr. Taylor, one of the deceased, eluded her. She was pretty sure he was the gentleman who used to drive through the neighborhood in a battered Chevy pickup, collecting soda cans to redeem for money, but she’d been unable to confirm her suspicions, and it frustrated her. She would eventually figure it out. She always did.
At eight o’clock sharp, she reached for the telephone. But it rang first.
“Hello,” she said.
Heavy static answered her.
Static had never frightened her, but this time, it brought to mind what had happened while she was using her grandson’s computer. A chill rushed along her spine.
Underneath the static, she thought she heard voices. A chorus of them.
They were calling her name.
“Mary ... Mary ... have to tell you about ...”
Mary’s knuckles, wrapped around the handset, turned pale.
“
.
. . need you to let people ...”
Shrieking, she tore the phone away from her ear, slammed it onto the cradle, but missed it. The phone landed on its side on the table, the tinny voices crackling from the earpiece.
“Help me ... Mary ...”
Trembling, she replaced the phone on the cradle.
“Lord Jesus,” she whispered. She touched her chest, felt the frenzied pounding of her heart. She was convinced that she was going to suffer a heart attack.
A glass of water stood on the table. She grabbed it, drank all of it.
The clock read three minutes past eight. The newspaper office was open. But she wasn’t interested in calling. The phone, previously a reliable tool for trading in gossip and information, had become an instrument of terror. She would not touch it.
The only thing she was interested in touching right now was her Bible. She would read a word from the Lord, for comfort, and then figure out what to do regarding the obits.
Her thick, tattered Bible—the book had outlived two husbands and seen her birth three children—lay on a small oak table in the living room, beside her recliner. She liked to study Scripture in the afternoons, in between watching the court programs on TV.
She picked up the Bible. The familiar feel of the worn leather binding slowed her racing heart. She settled into the recliner and pushed up her bifocals on her nose, preparing to read.
The television switched on. A blizzard of electric snow filled the screen.
Mary hadn’t moved her hand within a foot of the remote control. The TV had powered up of its own accord.
She stared at the screen, disbelieving, as if denying what had happened would somehow make it go away.
The TV set’s volume rose several decibels; it was so high that the static storm hurt her ears.
She grabbed the remote control on the table and mashed the POWER button.
The television remained on.
She pressed the VOLUME button, trying to lower it. But it didn’t work.
And then, mingled with the static, she heard voices. The same voices she’d heard on her grandson’s computer; the same ones she’d heard on her telephone minutes ago.
They were speaking her name again.
“Mary ... we need you ... to tell them ...”
Mary crossed herself, pressed her Bible close to her bosom.
Take them away, Lord,
she prayed.
Whoever they are, take them away. Deliver me, Jesus.
But the voices did not go away. The electric snow began to metamorphose into images. Visions of faces, the color washed out of them, as if they were behind a veil.
She could make out the face of Lillie Mae.
“Help me, Mary ... let them know ... you promised ...”
A scream struggled at the base of Mary’s throat, threatening to explode from her lips.
Lillie Mae’s ghostly eyes fixated on Mary.
“Tell them, Mary ... I was born September 15, 1929 ... to Clarence Lee and Thelma Johnson ... I lived a full and passionate life ...”
The scream dissolved in Mary’s throat.
Understanding, at last, drew her to her feet.
“... I loved cooking, gardening ... spending time with my family ...”
Mary went to the kitchen table. She picked up a legal pad and a pencil.
“... I was a member of Trinity Baptist Church and sang in the choir ... I worked at the VA ...”
Mary pulled a chair up close to the television and balanced the pad and pencil on her lap with sure hands.
“... On May 19, 2006, I was called home to rest with my Heavenly Father ...”
And Mary began to write what her departed friend was telling her, composing an obituary.
People needed to know. It was her duty to tell them.
The Woman Next Door
Late on a Saturday morning in June, Eric Richards was in the front yard, pulling weeds, when she arrived.
The Ford Expedition cruised down the street and turned into the driveway of the house next door. Eric snapped out of his daydream of being a lottery winner—one of his favorite fantasies—and watched the visitors.
“Wonder if those are the new neighbors,” he muttered. He straightened, grasping a tuft of weeds in one hand. His back throbbed—a sign that, even though he was only thirty, his body was no longer a finely honed machine—and he massaged the ache with his free hand.
The Expedition’s passenger door faced Eric. The door opened, and a lovely, bronze female leg, capped with a sandal, poked out.
Eric drew in a breath.
The woman who climbed out of the Ford very well might have stepped out of his daydreams and into the world of flesh and blood, because she was his dream woman, in every visible sense. Although at least thirty feet separated them, her beauty was as vivid and arresting as if he stood only inches away from her.
She was about five-six, with a shapely body that was alluringly showcased in a bright red sundress. Her lustrous dark hair fell to her shoulders in silky waves. She half-turned in his direction, and the profile of her face—large, doe-eyes, full lips, pert nose, sculpted cheekbones—snatched the remaining breath out of his lungs.
I don’t believe this,
he thought feverishly, like a starving man who suddenly found himself at a dinner banquet.
She’s too beautiful to even be real.
She smiled, and he swore that he saw her white teeth sparkle. She waved at him.
Startled, Eric lifted his hand and returned the gesture—involuntarily releasing the fistful of weeds. They scattered in his face, and he hastily brushed them out of his eyes.
But not before he saw the gold wedding band winking on her finger.
She’s married, he thought, and felt a strange sense of disappointment. Strange because he was married, too. What was wrong with him, getting so caught up in this woman? A twinge of guilt screwed through his stomach.
The woman laughed, lightly, as if accustomed to causing men to lose their bearings. She turned to face a tall, skinny black man who walked around the front of the SUV. The couple spoke in hushed tones. He wore a wedding ring, too. He was her husband. Of course.
The man saw Eric, but he did not wave. Lowering his head, almost like a servant obeying a queen, he shuffled to the back of the Expedition, popped open the cargo door, and began to unload boxes.
The woman didn’t assist her spouse. She whirled and strutted to the house’s front door, hips swaying gently. Even her walk was graceful, feline, and irresistibly sensual.
She disappeared inside the house, and Eric released a pent-up sigh. He bent down and began searching for more weeds to yank.
But instead of crabgrass, he kept seeing the woman’s swaying hips, statuesque legs, and diamond-bright smile.
What would your wife think?
he asked himself,
if she knew you were thinking like this about another woman—a woman who is now your neighbor?
Shame flushed his face. He had been with Tina for four years, married for three, and had never been unfaithful. Had never really been tempted to stray. His marriage was far from perfect, yet he took pride in his devotion to his wife.
But he’d never seen a woman like the one next door, either. Someone so beautiful—and so close by.
Although he knew it was wrong, he was already looking forward to meeting her.
 
A half hour later, feeling uncharacteristically antsy, Eric went inside his house to get a drink of water and relax for a short while.
Inside, Tina was busy doing the two things she seemed to love most: cooking and talking on the phone.
“Yeah, girl, would you believe she did that?” Tina asked, speaking into the telephone headset that she wore so often it might have been a piece of garish jewelry. Undoubtedly, she was talking to one of her girlfriends. “And then she had the nerve to come back and tell me ...”
Eric tuned her out, a survival tactic he’d learned in his first few months of marriage. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping and watching his wife.
Tina, in her own world, didn’t notice him standing there—or didn’t care. Her hands were a frenzy of activity as she whipped up yet another chocolate cake. She wore baggy Levi’s, a drab blue T-shirt, and worn-out house shoes. Her brittle hair was wrapped in a scarf, and a smudge of cake frosting marred her chin.
This woman had changed so much since he had married her. When they had been dating, she had loved outdoor activities, aerobics, and healthful eating. She’d been a size five, and got her nails and hair done almost weekly. She’d been a stylish dresser who favored bold colors and formfitting outfits. And she loved to have sex.
But the woman who shuffled around the kitchen in front of him might have been Tina’s ugly duckling, ice-maiden sister.
In three years of marriage, she’d ballooned up to a size eighteen. She visited her hair stylist only a couple of times a year, and hadn’t gotten her nails done in months. She preferred to dress in baggy, grungy clothes, like a tomboy. During weekends, when she didn’t have to work, she avoided going outdoors unless it was to go to the mall, a grocery store, or church, as if she was agoraphobic. She binged on junk food and sweets. And she had lost all desire for sex.
His marriage had suddenly become the prison that he’d always feared it would be. He was chained to a wife who bore little resemblance to the woman he’d fallen in love with.
If only I’d waited,
he thought sometimes.
If only I’d held out a little longer, for the woman that I knew, beyond all doubt, was Ms. Right.
If only he’d waited, he might’ve met the woman next door.
Tina finished her call. Eric spoke up before she dialed the next friend on her call list.
“We have new neighbors,” he said. “I just saw them moving in this morning.”
“Do we?” she asked absently. She didn’t bother to look at him, intent on her baking. “We’ll have to go meet them sometime.”
He knew that she had no interest in meeting the neighbors. It would take her outside of her house, away from her friends and baking.
“It’s a nice day,” he said. “I think I’m going to go walking this evening. Want to join me?”
Her face puckered sourly. “You know I hate walking outside, Eric. The pavement’s bad on my knees.”
“But it’s good exercise.”
“I’d rather use the treadmill.”
He almost laughed. The treadmill that she referred to sat in their bedroom, serving more as Tina’s makeshift clothes hanger than as an exercise machine. She hadn’t used the thing since he’d bought it for her birthday two years ago.
“I wish you’d get off this physical fitness kick,” she added. “I married you because I wanted a husband, not a personal trainer.”
“But—”
“In sickness, and in health,” she went on. “You married me for my spirit, not my body.”
“Right,” he said.
“You act like I’m a slob. I’ve put on a few pounds, I admit, but I still look good, to me. I’m happy with myself, so you should be happy, too.”
“That’s cool, but, Tina ...”
The phone chirped. Tina pressed the button to answer it, with the practiced swiftness of a switchboard operator. She squealed with delight when she heard who was on the phone. One of her girlfriends who lived out of town.
Although Eric wanted to continue their conversation, he knew it was pointless. Tina had tuned him out, caught up in the drama of her friend’s life.
He trudged out of the kitchen and returned to the front yard.
Maybe I should learn to be content with my marriage,
he thought. After all, it could’ve been worse. Tina kept a clean house, and cooked for them virtually every day. She was employed full time and made good money as a paralegal. She was a devout, churchgoing woman who believed in honesty, decency, and loyalty. She was a good woman, and would likely make a wonderful mother to their children. He was fortunate to have her.
But he just wasn’t attracted to her anymore. The thought was painful and oddly liberating at the same time.
He looked longingly at the house next door, hoping to see the woman. She didn’t reappear. The house was quiet. He would’ve expected to see a moving truck, but evidently, they would be bringing in their belongings later. Maybe he would see her again then. And then, perhaps he would meet her.
As it turned out, a week passed before he finally met the woman.
The morning of the following Saturday, Eric was outdoors, mowing grass, when the garage door of the house next door lumbered upward. The Ford Expedition rumbled out.
The passenger seat was empty, but the husband was driving.
Eric’s heart leapt. Could the woman be in the house, alone?
The SUV rolled out of the driveway, down the street, and out of sight.
He quit pushing the lawn mower. The blades thumped into silence.
Since last weekend, the woman had dominated Eric’s thoughts. In his mind, she had become—impossibly—even more beautiful and desirable. He longed to see her again, and had watched the house every day, waiting for a treasured glimpse of her, an opportunity to make her acquaintance.
Now, with her husband gone, he had his chance.
Chance to do what?
he asked himself, as he walked briskly toward the house.
Remember, Eric, nothing can happen. Both of us are married. I’ll get a friendly conversation out of this, that’s all.
Tina was in the house, talking on the phone. She would never notice that he was gone. But he felt like a kid sneaking away to steal a cookie.
His heart hammered.
He rang the doorbell. Within just a few seconds, the door swung open—as if she had been waiting for him.
When he saw what the woman was wearing, his mouth slipped open.
She wore an orange tank top that revealed deep, lush cleavage, high-cut denim shorts (Daisy Dukes, Eric thought vaguely), and that was all. She looked like a chocolate goddess.
He pulled his gaze away from her body, and spoke.
“Hi, my name’s Eric. I live next door. I wanted to introduce myself and welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“Pleased to meet you, Eric. I’m Diana.” She had a mellow, throaty voice—just the kind he liked. Smiling broadly, she offered her hand.
Was it just his imagination, or did a current of delicious energy pass through him when he grasped her warm, soft hand?
He didn’t know. He felt slightly dizzy. She was even more beautiful up close than he had hoped. He could sink in her eyes, and her glossy red lipstick looked so good on her luscious lips that he wanted to draw them in his mouth and nibble on them, like plump fruit.
“Diana, huh? That’s a nice name.” Although he had waited days for this opportunity, he couldn’t think of anything witty and charming to say. “Like Diana Ross.”
“Or the goddess Diana,” she said.
“Well, you could be a goddess,” he said. The words tumbled out before he realized what he’d said, and he wanted to kick himself. This was supposed to be an innocent, friendly chat, not a pickup attempt. What was wrong with him?
But he didn’t apologize, and Diana didn’t frown disapprovingly.
“I’ve noticed that you spend a lot of time outdoors working on your lawn,” she said. Her voice lowered. “Do you put as much energy into everything you do?”
“If I love doing it, yes.” Damn, this woman is flirting with me!
She chuckled softly, and glanced at his wedding ring. “I’m sure your wife appreciates that.”
“She used to,” he said.
He was edging into dangerous, uncharted territory. But he couldn’t stop.
“Aww, shame on her.” Diana shook her head. “Strong black men are hard to find.”

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