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Benny smiled, went to the sink
and grabbed a dishrag. He mopped up the coffee. John tried to take the cloth.
"Nah," Benny said,
"I got it. A man earns his keep, no matter what woman's house he's
in."
With a flick of his hand, he
tossed the rag at the sink and retook his seat.
A smile creased John's lips.
Voice full of irony, he said, "I take it you're the one who told Terry
Marie a woman should live near her mother."
Benny glanced at him,
shrugged, then nodded.
"'A woman is born to
life/a man but to die.'" Benny grimaced at the look of fascination that
came over John's homely face. He sighed. "Women are sacred, like kids and
old folks. Men are created to stand between them and danger. That," Benny
said half in anger, "was why women were always pictured doing the carrying
while the man walked along with only his bow or rifle. Not," Benny's voice
cracked with rage, "because we're a bunch of lazy prairie-niggers."
You hear that, Grandfather
Waya? You wanted me to stand up for my rights, Old-Man.
'Till you die, kid. Stand
tall.'
Benny tipped the chair back,
rocking for a few moments.
"If they were attacked,
he'd fight while the women and kids would run and hide. It's easy enough to
figure out," Benny said in soft, earnest tones, "A woman can always
find another man. Maybe that sounds cold to a yan:ki, but how do you
replace a kid or a mother? How does a man find a woman to equal the other half
of his heart? I'd rather die than face life with only a memory." A torn,
ravaged body flashed into his mind and Benny closed his eye, willing it away.
Please, Sue, don't haunt
me. All you are is a nightmare. Just something my screwed up head dug out to
punish me because I let old man Greylov use me.
God, but I was only six. Oh,
god, I hate myself for letting him.
Burning with shame, he glanced
away. Benny sipped his coffee and closed his good eye to John's questioning
look. It had been a long night, but yo, a real pleasant one. For the most part.
Sweet-Bottom and her choked off screams. Enthusiasm didn't begin to describe
her. His knees pressed together of their own accord in the sweet ache of
remembrance.
Mama's got a squeeze box,
Daddy plays it all night.
"I take it then, that
they didn't emasculate you."
The chair crashed to the floor
and John cowered away, staring.
In the midst of his high,
Milhouser smiled a slow dopey leer at Mike.
"I was there. I seen his
eyes. Johanson's. Blew up. Fire burned 'em out. And all the kid did was curse at
m' bro. That was the other year. Up inna red nigger town. Kills Deer. He caused
a thirty car pile-up over in Fayetteville last November." The sweet dreams
were becoming nightmares. "Killed the dogs." This last was a
frightened sob.
"Dogs?" Mike softly
prompted.
"At th' Manse.
Fuck-house. Good ass there, if you got the money. Costs a lot. We get . . . paid
from the take. Like CIA does, but from sellin' dope to kids. Losta . . . lots a
girls. Boys. You like boys, Donnelly?"
The hunger in the older man's
eyes brought a chill of distaste to Mike.
"Girls."
"Oh." Al smiled his
dreamy smile, everything was smooth, the lights pretty. "Two a them. 'Bout
eight by now. Twins. Do anything, anything, anything, man. Lust buckets. Red
heads. Sweet girls. Anything."
Mike sat back. In his hand a
small recorder shook. Pedophiles. His mind snarled in disgust and shame. No
wonder the old shithead used his fists on women. He was a fairy, a pedophile.
Probably couldn't do it any other way. Mike's stomach clenched in revulsion.
"Tell me why they want
Benny."
"Told you." Al's
eyes sparked in anger. "Kid got pissseyeonic powers. Psionic." He
smiled in triumph. "Makes y'r eyes blow up." Milhouser shuddered,
tears swelled in his eyes. His words grew slurred and weak with sobs. Mike
reached to shut off the recorder when Milhouser said, "Makes women crazy
for him. Lust bucket. Real stud, 'cause o' the power. Can't resist him. Fall in
love with him. Want to die . . . for him. Project made 'im like 'at. Soes womens
wanna have his kids. Then we gets a kids. Cool." A chuckle of admiration
whispered from Milhouser's drooling lips. He sighed and closed his eyes.
Mike jumped to Milhouser's
side and took the lapels of the man's jacket. "What did you say you drunken
bastard?" he cried. "Tell me?" Milhouser smiled in his dreams.
Raging at the man Mike drew back his hand and slapped Milhouser, blood shot from
a split lip, drooling out of Milhouser's nose.
"Wake up. What was that
last?"
Milhouser had slipped too
deeply into his dreams. Mike let him fall back and took up the recorder. Shocked
to the core, he replayed it. That bastard Greylov, he had some kind of a spell
over Terry Marie. The recorder smashed into the wall and Mike ran out the door
to their car.
Sheathed in ice, the car was
as well as locked away. Mike raised his face and vented his rage on a rising
sun.
Mike fell on the car, beating
it until his fists were raw and splotches of blood smeared the ice to match the
red haze in his mind.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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