Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows (4 page)

One door at the rear of the dusty kitchen opened onto a small back porch. The other led to the basement. It was very dark down there. He idly lit a cigarette and noticed several used candles on a ledge just inside the basement door. He lit one with his cigarette lighter and slowly made his way down the rickety stairs.

The flickering candlelight revealed an electrical panel box, a furnace, a fuel oil drum and several large, dusty boxes. He walked towards the far end of the basement and saw there was a large empty space between the furnace and the cinderblock wall. He entered the area, looked at the overhead beam and his eyes glazed over as the frequently enjoyed daydream returned.

He envisioned Sandra Dollar, her wrists bound, body suspended from the overhead beam with toes barely touching the floor and her mouth gagged with duct tape. He pictured himself beating her with his fists and an iron pipe. He could almost feel the warmth of her body as he mentally stripped her naked. He saw himself remove his wide leather belt and could nearly hear her muffled screams as he inflicted whelp after whelp on her tender flesh.

When her body absorbed more pain than it could bear, as his had done during the robbery, he would always cut her down in his daydream, spread her legs and rape her. As ejaculation approached, he saw himself standing over her, aiming streams of hot sperm onto her face and washing it away with his urine.

At this point his daydream took one of three directions and he smiled as he contemplated which way to finish today. Sometimes he would again hoist her body into the air, letting her hang from the beam in agony awaiting repeated assaults. Sometimes his daydream would end with her hanging from the beam, her small breasts sliced off, and him happily watching her slowly bleed to death. Sometimes the end would come with her still lying on her back. He would insert his rifle into her vagina and blow her brains out the long way. Today he decided to save her for future punishment and he imagined her on her knees in front of him, performing oral sex while he pinched her nipples with pliers.

“It won't be long now, Sandy baby,” he said aloud. “Your time has all but come."

By design, Rita Holder was the first customer at the Dot Diner. It was 5:30 and she yawned as she sat on the counter stool closest to the cash register.

Dottie Frank filled a mug with freshly brewed coffee and sat it on the counter in front of the sleepy owner of the Holder Advertising Agency. “What in the world brings you out so early in the morning?” she asked her groggy customer.

Rita sipped the hot coffee and sighed as she extended to Dottie a folded newspaper. “Have you had a chance to see this week's
Dot Courier
?"

“No,” Dottie replied.

“Turn to page four."

Dottie opened the newspaper. Her eyes first reflected surprise and then rage.

“You designed this ad,” she said furiously.

“Dottie, advertising design is my business."

“But it's your choice as to whom you will accept as customers,” Dottie said angrily.

“It is, but it doesn't make much sense to turn away long term business, and Mr. Bennett has put together an extensive advertising campaign."

“Well, at least you have the guts to show it to me,” Dottie said as she reread the full-page advertisement. Centered on the page was “Dot's Diner” within a circle with a line through it. The text read, “If you think the food at Dot's Diner is good, wait ’til you taste any of the wide variety of items on the menu of the new Korner Kafe—open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Coming soon!” Superimposed on the entire ad was a caricature of a smiling chef that strongly resembled George Bennett.

“Dottie,” Rita said. “Two can play the same game."

“I barely break even as it is, Rita. I can't afford to do much advertising."

Rita opened her briefcase and placed an ad slick on the counter. “This one's on the house,” she said.

The ad was plain and simple. “Friends are forever. Dot's Diner."

“That says it all,” Dottie remarked. “How much do you think an ad like this would cost in the
Courier
?"

“Five bucks a week."

“Maybe I could swing that."

“There's something else,” Rita suggested. “The concept you want to stress is ‘friends.’ You want to drill that into your customer's heads. You have a daily special anyway. Start calling it the Friends of Dottie Special. Add that heading to the hand lettered signs you put in your window every day."

“Can't hurt,” Dottie said as she headed to the kitchen.

When she returned with Rita's breakfast order she asked, “What would it cost me to get the artist who works for you to draw a caricature of me? I thought maybe I could get some posters printed up with my cartoon picture and the heading you suggested to write the daily specials on."

“Now you're thinking,” Rita smiled. “Maybe you could get one of those erasable boards with the image and legend on it. Do you have any photos of yourself we can use as models?"

“I'll bring some tomorrow, but how much will it cost?"

“I'll cover the cost,” Rita replied, “and I know a company in Charlotte that deals in advertising specialties. I'll check it out for you. In spite of what I've done, I'm still one of your friends too, Dottie."

Other breakfast customers began arriving. Dottie was so busy she did not notice when Rita slipped out, but she did see Eddie Crow come in. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen and studied the bearded man as June waited on him. He seemed so familiar, but she just couldn't place him. Customers were talking quietly and casting furtive glances her way. She knew they had seen George Bennett's ad.

The Dot Volunteer Fire Department and Rescue Squad siren wailed and immediately three men jumped up and rushed out the door, leaving behind their unfinished plates of ham and eggs. Dottie hoped it was the new restaurant burning down, but she knew the cement block walls could not burn. The volunteers would return shortly and she would replace their meals at no extra charge, as she always did.

She again looked at Eddie Crow. When the siren first sounded, he jumped, as if he, too, were a volunteer. Perhaps he was a volunteer in another town and his movement was a reflex action, or maybe the mournful wail just startled him. Where have I met that man before? she wondered.

Within minutes, people packed the diner beyond capacity. The curious, having heard the siren, migrated to the diner where they knew the firemen would return. Except for the volunteers, few of the customers in the diner left after the siren sounded. Eddie Crow consumed cup after cup of coffee. Dottie wondered how much his bladder could hold and she emptied the ashtray in front of him three times.

It was her son, Billy, who was the first volunteer to return to the diner. All conversation ceased when he entered the door. He cleared his throat, but his voice cracked as he announced, “It's Bobby Elliott. He's been shot."

A thin smile creased Eddie Crow's lips.

“According to his wife, Bobby stepped outside about 6:00 this morning to get the
Charlotte Observer
from the box on the street. She heard two shots, rushed to the door and saw Bobby lying in a pool of blood on the front lawn."

“Damn,” someone said reverently. “How is he?"

“One bullet caught him in the chest and the other in his right shoulder. He was still breathing when we got him into the ambulance, but he was bleeding profusely."

The smile faded from Crow's lips.

“I don't think he's gonna make it,” Billy continued. “Looked to me like the hole in his chest was near his heart."

“Damn,” someone said.

“Who done it?” another asked.

“Probably his wife,” another customer observed. “I hear she's nothing but an old whore he picked up in Charlotte."

“Couldn't have been his wife,” Billy said. “The shots must have come from the woods opposite Bobby's little patch of tobacco. The deputies are combing the area right now looking for evidence like rifle shell casings."

Eddie Crow subconsciously patted the two metal cylinders in his right pocket and smiled again. He won't be around to protect you this time, Mrs. Sandra Dollar, he thought. Again the image of the naked and beaten woman, wrists tied together and body suspended from an overhead beam, danced in his mind's eye.

Why in the world is that man smiling? Dottie wondered.

“Already started writing?"

Leora Borders looked up from the keyboard and smiled at her beautiful daughter-in-law. “Rough draft, Jo,” she replied. “I've read through the first twenty-five years of the church's minutes and I have so many ideas running through my head I want to get them written down before I lose them."

Jo looked over Leora's shoulder at the monitor. “I should think the preface would be the last part you'd write."

“It will be the last thing I edit, I suppose, but for my own guide, if for no other reason, I want to formulate my purpose in writing."

“Makes sense. Write fast, Leora. The twins will wake up from their naps soon and then you won't be able to think, let alone write."

The two women laughed as Jo hugged her mother-in-law. Leora reviewed what she had already written.

The purpose of this book is to gather together in one writing the bits and pieces of historical data concerning the Dot Baptist Church and edit them in such a manner as to make live again the lives of those who have gone before us. As I searched through the yellowed pages and strained to read faded brown ink, the men and women who founded this organization literally did begin to live again for me. I realized this most suddenly as I was walking through the church cemetery after having read twenty-five years of church minutes. The names on the worn tombstones were no longer unfamiliar; those buried were no longer strangers, but were now my friends who had formed the church. I felt an inexplicable loss as I looked down upon the graves of the men and women about whom I was writing.

Leora adjusted her bifocals, reached for a cigarette and then remembered. She sighed and popped a mint in her mouth before resuming her work.

In the writing of this book, I have not only honestly tried to include every piece of historical data I could find, but also to make it as interesting as possible. In many instances, I have left out the names of individuals, for no good can possibly come from embarrassing families whose relatives of days gone by may have veered slightly from the straight and narrow path. In quoting from old documents I have retained the original spelling, punctuation, and capitalization in the belief that this adds flavor to the quotation.

It is hoped that this book will fill the reader with the wonder of the historical heritage which is his or hers, and will inspire the reader to make his or her own contribution to the history of the church during its second hundred years.

Leora Nickels Borders

“Hi, honey. I'm back,” Borders said as he joined his wife.

“How'd it go?"

“Great. I shot a 62."

“That
is
good,” she grinned. “What'd you have on the back nine?"

“You're too damn smart for me, old woman,” he laughed as he massaged her shoulders and kissed her cheek. His hands moved towards her breasts and she grabbed his wrists, stopping him.

“Borders, can't you see I'm working?"

“Hey, I'm pursuing my business interests too,” he protested.

“Yeah—monkey business.” She relented and allowed herself the pleasure of his hands gently caressing her breasts. She felt her nipples stiffen.

“Can't you use a five minute break?” he asked.

“There you go, bragging again,” she laughed as she stood and embraced him.

The faded brown pickup truck bounced onto the rutted driveway, causing the cargo in the back to come dangerously close to spilling over the tailgate.

“Slow down, Eddie,” Greta said.

“Shut up, bitch."

He stopped in front of the small frame house. “Ain't much, is it?” he asked. “It'll take a bush hog to mow down the bushes and saplings in the front yard."

“Why not just leave it?” she asked. “It provides some privacy from cars driving by and you won't ever have to mow it."

“Won't be many cars driving by,” he said. “There is only one other house on Schoolhouse Road. There'll be plenty of noise from the playground, though, during recess and stuff."

Greta opened her door and looked towards the school. “I don't know. Looks like the playground is pretty far off.” She sat back in the seat. “I like the porch and the house don't look like it needs painting. What's it look like inside?"

“Don't know."

“You haven't looked inside?"

“Not really. I looked around a little, but it was dark inside and I couldn't see much. I had a man go by this morning and fill up the fuel oil tank and check out the furnace."

“Why'd you leave so early this morning?"

“I told you, I had to come get the key, have the electricity turned on and the fuel oil tank filled."

“You could have brought me with you, this morning. Why didn't you?"

“I decided to let you sleep. You're going to need you strength to clean this place up."

“Yeah. It's probably a mess. I guess we'll both be worn out before this day's over."

“Not me, bitch. Cleaning is woman's work."

“What the hell are you gonna do all day?"

“I'm gonna get rid of the ghost."

“What?"

Eddie laughed. “Creasy Green said the house was haunted by the schoolteacher who used to own it."

“You didn't tell me that."

“Come on, bitch, get your ass in gear,” he said as he opened the driver's side door. “There's no such thing as a ghost."

Greta hung behind as they mounted the front steps. Eddie turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The rusty hinges creaked as the heavy door slowly revealed the dimly lighted interior of the living room with dusty sheets draped over furniture.

“I ain't going in there, Eddie."

He grabbed her arm and yanked her inside, stepped over the threshold and closed the door. “Boo!” he shouted as the hinges ceased their groaning.