[“Are
we to the Redwoods yet?” Marine stirred from her nap and asked her
husband. A fly beat against the window. Her heart sank when she saw
more rows of wheat stalks, and with the sun settling over the western
horizon outside, the crops and the luminous farm houses shined in a
copper glimmer.
“We
have to cross the River first.” Alistair pointed beyond the
interstate to the tall grass collaring the Missouri. A sign appeared,
and he read it aloud. “Highway 45- five miles. Two miles- Elkhead,
Nebraska.”
The
bridge soared over the river. Below it appeared as a lethargic vessel
of hazelnut. As they crossed big roofs appeared above hilltop trees.
Billboards of fetuses and crucified messiahs welcomed them to town.
They passed between a sleepy diner and antique gas pumps sitting
outside a tiny shack. Over railroad tracks, they found the baseball
field with an old man teaching boys to throw a curveball. Windows of
suburban homes warmed the town limits. The high school stood adorned
in spirit banners and tapestries hung over the fence claiming
championship runner ups from thirty years prior. “What a
sentimental town.” Alistair complained under his breath as a the
driver of a passing truck waved at them with two fingers. They drove
past a skate park with padlocks over the gate and NO TRESPASSING
signs on each corner. “Good.” Marine said. “This place knows
how to handle its troublemakers.”
“Indeed-
it’s the kids that are in public that you have to watch out for
most of all.” Alistair rolled his eyes. Downtown lead them down a
strip of brown and orange brick buildings with darkened windows
offering small displays of what awaited within. Down at the end of
downtown, they parked at the marina to watch the river. Sewage from
Omaha turned the river into a foaming trench of sick fish and
whirlpools of bitter brown soup. They held hands and blushed, unaware
that just down the valley meth labs cooked, trailers and crumbling
homes housed exhausted souls, husbands beat their wives within
subsidized apartments, transients slept under the viaduct, and a
police officer in a mismatched uniform watched them from the shade
through a detached rifle scope. The cruiser without license plates
appeared besides them like a root snagging a pant leg. He rolled his
window down. “How are you folks today?”
Alistair
and Marine readjusted their cuffs, and giggled at the crooked teeth
exposed by the officer’s wide open grin. Sunglasses hid his eyes,
despite the setting sun. Summer humidity caused both their
windshields to fog, but not a drip of sweat ran down the face of the
officer. When he smiled, his sponge like cheeks didn’t flex, and
beneath his ears screws lay embedded.
“We’re
on our way to California.” Marine told the officer. “Do you know
how to get to highway 45?”
“You
want to avoid the gravel roads. Turn at the tire depot, and take the
stretch to Starkweather Beltway, and follow that to highway 45.”
They
thanked the officer, and took his directions around the depot, but
found the beltway closed. A semi overturned and left a mess of
twisted fenders and spilled fertilizer, so they turned down a gravel
road headed west. They followed it until the gravel became pebbles,
and the pebbles became dirt, and the dirt become grass. The fighting
started. She accused him of trying to get them lost, and he suggested
that she drive the rest of the way. The sun touched the purple bands
of the western bluffs. The fly still beat against the glass. Alistair
got out to kick the dirt. Marine slapped the fly with the map, and
scraped its gut off out the window. Alistair walked into the tall
grass surrounding them. Darkness settled between trees and weeds.
Marine’s flesh chilled to sheet steel. Her concern became worry.
Another car pulled up onto the gravel behind them and waited. She
watched it park diagonally and block their exit.
When
Alistair left the vehicle he cursed and shouted, but before he made a
scene he noticed blood on blades of the tall grass. His curiosity
developed further when he found a belt buckle and a soiled dress in
the dirt. The same blood droplets varnished them. He entered the
grass, followed a beaten path until the blood stopped. He breathed
slow, cleaned his glasses. White hairs hung in his face. Sweat
dripped into his ears and eyes. He turned to go back when he heard a
country song coming from between his feet. He looked down to see a
black slate light up between five fleshy digits. He stepped back, but
found no arm, nobody- only the exposed wrist bone with nothing
attached to the fists grasping the phone. He bent down to see for
certain. In the screen he saw a young girl hugging someone that
looked similar to the officer that offered them the directions. He
pried the fingers away to see clearer. The girl in the image strained
the muscles of her neck, her smile didn’t stretch so much as break.
Her eyes didn’t match the squinting jubilance of the man she smiled
with. They loomed wide, watery, even wasted. He left the hand in the
grass, wiped the bloody prints away, and touched the cracked glass.
The screen shifted to a long message panel sent to DAD. Alistair bit
his tongue as he read.
[[[[The
sheriff lost his job because he came home at 2am one night to find a
man peering through his daughter’s window. At first he stayed in
the car and assumed that maybe a friend of hers or a suitor came to
visit, but the specter remained perched with his breath slow and hood
pulled over his head. The sheriff exited his car, and shined a light
on him. The specter turned around, grinning without shame, eyes
boldened, and cheeks blushing red. The sheriff still wore his
uniform, but the specter saw only a silhouette obscured by a blinding
orb. The sheriff searched for a voyeur for months and knew he made no
mistake. Without hesitation he produced his taser and fired it. The
voyeur fell to the ground, his expression reduced to white terror,
his jaw locked in pain as the sheriff kept the weapon charging volts
until smoke rose from the under the his clothes and the reek of
cooked meat filled the gravel alley. He went inside, broke through
his daughters room. She awoke, her bare leg exposed from the covering
sheets, alarm springing her from the bed. He promised her no danger
would befall her- that he’d marry her off to a good family that
would take care of her. She smelled the burned flesh. She went to the
window to see hand prints on the glass, and the smoking body beyond.
“You’re
safe now, you’re safe now-” he told her. “I’ll never let you
suffer harm. Never.”
He
lost his badge, and no matter how hard he fought to get it back, the
county asserted that the man he killed carried no weapons and posed
no threat. The voyeur lived in his mother’s basement, suffered a
learning disability, and seldom knew right from wrong. The sheriff
left burning refuse in front of the homes of the committee. Everyday
he went shooting in the woods, he looked at the animals he hunted,
and never forgot that night, nor how they county he served betrayed
him until his daughter turned sixteen. That’s when her face
appeared on every newspaper across the state. She entered a beauty
contest behind his back, and won Miss Nebraska.
The
former sheriff left dirty dishes in the sink, and left wet laundry to
mold in the washer. He watched the award ceremony contest with
silent joy, but crossed his arms and scowled until he got his
daughter home when he found the reward reward consisted of having the
Country singer Florid Horses sing his new song to her on stage when
he came through Omaha. The sheriff asked her not to go, but his
daughter insisted. “But he’s my favorite...” The sheriff told
her to stay home the night of the performance, but she insisted.
“Please, dad, it's only one night-”
He
found the food he dosed with sleeping agent in the trash. He boarded
up her window, and locked the bedroom door. He called to her from the
other side, “I worry about you. I’ve nothing anymore.”
A
limousine pulled up to the house. A representative in a blue suit
came to the door and complained about Miss Nebraska’s late coming.
The ex sheriff explained his reservations, and the representative
touched his shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “I understand
its out of your comfort zone, but I assure you they’ll only be in
contact for the duration of one song.”
“What
song?” he asked.
“Nebraska
Enchanting- he wrote it just for this circumstance. Are you a
listener of Florid Horses?”
“No,
no, no...”
“Sir,”
he offered the sheriff a cigar from his sleeve, “We heard about
your trouble. We’d like to suggest that maybe prohibiting Miss
Nebraska from attending may cause difficulty in restoring your public
appearance- whereas her attendance will be noticed, and greatly
appreciated.”
The
ex sheriff listened. He always wanted her to marry the Rothorn son
who was in line to inherent all the farms in the tri-county area.
He’d been trying to arrange the marriage before he lost his badge.
The idea of wedding bells made him step aside and let the
representative inside. He wore a sharp tuxedo that remained tucked no
matter how freely he moved his limbs or jostled his body. He knocked
at Miss Nebraska’s door, and called on her. She told him she wanted
to go more than anything. He folded his hands in front of him, and
lowered his head in a a delicate smile. The ex sheriff unlocked the
door, and he never saw his daughter so gorgeous again]]]
He
dropped it as it rang once more. The same country song played, one he
heard on the radio, the one that the musician wrote just for Miss
Nebraska. Alistair listened...
I
left the ballroom
Somewhere
in the Sandhills
Nothing
caused my heart to stay
I
tasted farmer’s soil
and
the worker’s oil
Barren
Summer Rays
Crystal
Winter Days
Every
way I fought mills, pills, bills
I
took her across the plains of Doom
I'm
coming to marry my wing,
Miss
Nebraska Enchanting.
He
rushed back through the grass, his head aching, his ears twitching,
whispers in the wind conspiring sinister recitals, His shoulder
muscles spasmed, his organs cramped and choked.. Once he broke
through the grass, he called for Marine, but he stopped in place when
he saw no one inside of the car. The seat belt hung undone over her
seat. The passenger side door loomed open. He sneered when his own
phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at it, and felt his heart
drop from his chest. [I went on a walk. Wanted to see the river
again. Come find me when you’re done. Loving the trip. Love,
Marine.] Alistair drove back up the gravel, to town-
The
sheriff came into the department and asked one of the desk workers
about the out-of-towners that came through.
“Oh,
just some tourists trying to see the museums on their way west. As
usual.” He explained with impenetrable boredom. “Seems they got
lost, but I showed them the way out. They won’t bother us again.”
He
carried with him a piece of bench with names carved across. “Look
here, they vandalized city property.”
“That’s
from Starkweather’s bench! The nerve of some people.”
The
desk worker tossed another cell phone into the drawer and went to
check on his prisoners. As he walked down the isle of caged scowls
and bewitched convictions, he whistled Nebraska
Enchanting.]
sent April 2018
