The Drought (32 page)

Sand skittered across the windshield of the Aston Martin. It whispered, e
ast, they’re heading east.

Griffin drove east.

They traveled East

At the rest area, Suzy and Jar hitched a ride with an old man named Jake LeBoeuf. The Ford Ranger stayed on Interstate10 for a short distance before taking the exit for Gramercy. It was Jar’s turn to fall asleep. As he started to slip away he felt rising anticipation encircle him. He couldn’t tell if it came from the silent presence of Jean-Claude or from within himself. At the rest area he had touched the clay box again and when the heat coursed through him he’d seen an image of him and Suzy crossing a giant bridge. He got the feeling he’d see more if he hung onto the box a little longer but he didn’t like the feeling that went through him, didn’t like the fact that Jean-Claude felt less and less like a dream.

Jar dozed and dreamt of game six at Fenway Park. In the dream he was Carlton Fisk. As he approached home-plate the sounds of the stadium roared in his ears. Someone yelled, “Hit it out of the park, Pudge.” Way off he could hear a vendor yelling above the excited crowd, “Peanuts, get cha peanuts.” Then, Darcy was on the mound. He let loose a high fast-ball and everything was silenced by the crack of the bat and the sight of the ball sailing down the left-field line. The ball arced, it was soaring. Jar hopped toward first watching the ball and waving, waving it to stay fair. It did, clanking off the foul pole for the game-winning homer.

He awoke to Pete Rose’s words, ‘I never like to lose, but I’m proud to have played in this ballgame.’ He must have said the words out loud because Jake LeBouf was staring at him in the rearview mirror.

Jake had considered taking the kids home to Louisa, she had a soft spot for strays. They even had a spare room where the kids could get cleaned up and rest if they wanted to. The boy had him on edge. There was something odd about him, something bad he couldn’t quite put his finger on. On the outskirts of Hymel he pulled to the side of the road and let the kids out.

The girl looked confused.

He pointed down River Road indicating which way they had to travel to get to the Veteran’s Memorial Bridge. As he pulled away the heavy canvas fluttered loose from its strap exposing the tan rump of a dead deer.

Junction, Texas

Cold dirt covered the floor of the basement. Like a dog seeking shade Beth was tempted to stretch out, belly down against the delicious coolness. She settled for curling her bare toes in the soil, the outside temperature momentarily forgotten as goose bumps ran down her arms. In response to the sudden chill, her nipples puckered up tight showing through the thin tank top she was wearing. Self-conscious she rubbed her arms vigorously and crossed her arms across her chest.

The basement looked like a well designed mine. Crossbeams and trusses supported the ceiling with the help of numerous load bearing walls. This intricate foundation held the weight of the structure above and created a labyrinth of tunnels which disappeared into the dark.

Barry walked around the main area of the basement then came back. Slightly excited he said, “It’s laid out like the first floor. Look.” He ran his flashlight against the far wall and outlined the shape of the room. “This is the main foyer.” The beam of light danced in a bigger circle. “And this, this is the great hall.” Confident, he walked across to the corridor he had found. “This is the hall we went down to find the storage room.” He flashed his light at Beth. “Now the question is, where would someone like Griffin put a baby?”

The question made her recoil. It was hard to believe Griffin kept a dead baby. How could Barry be so certain that it would be here? “What if he buried it?” She pointed to the dirt floor. “It could be anywhere.”

The suggestion surprised him. It was obvious he hadn’t considered the possibility. He crouched down and touched the cold dirt, letting it slide through his fingers. After thinking it over he said, “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” She was incredulous. Griffin burying the baby made the most sense.

He looked up. “Because of my mom.” By the look on Beth’s face, he could see his words hadn’t clarified anything. “When I found my mom last night, her body was laid out on the bed in the same nightdress she must have been wearing when she…” his voice cracked. “…when she jumped.” He threw down a handful of dirt and stood up. “I think the baby is here in a room laid out just like my mom.”

She stared at Barry, unable to fathom a mind like Griffin Tanner’s.
How could he do that? How could he leave them unburied? Their spirits couldn’t be at rest. They must be…
She remembered the sound of a baby crying when she came through the kitchen. The sound had faded as she moved farther into the house. She grabbed the flashlight from Barry and moved to the opposite end of the room. He was right. The underground rooms aligned with the first story. There was a corridor leading into the darkness. On the main floor it would have led to the kitchen and the backstairs. She flashed the light at Barry, “Over here.”

If her instinct was right, there had to be a nursery off the back corridor. Griffin would have realized he couldn’t leave a dead baby on the main floor. If he had in fact not buried the baby then there had to be a makeshift nursery in the basement.

They walked down the dark corridor together, flashing the light from the left to the right. As they passed a big room Barry announced. “Kitchen.”

They kept going until they came to a tunnel that veered to the left. She stopped and flashed the beam of light down the small corridor. “Where are we?”

He walked a few steps ahead and came back. “This way is Griffin’s study and over there,” he pointed down the small hall, “is his collection room.”

“What’s farther down?”

“If we keep going we’ll hit a wall. That’s where the back stairs would be.”

Disappointed she flashed her light down the hall certain they had missed something. “I thought maybe there would be a nursery or something. Did you ever see a baby nursery on the first floor?”

He shook his head.

Unconvinced, she walked the length of the hall until she hit the wall he had predicted. “Damn. I really thought I was on to something.”

“Let’s try the other corridor.”

She nodded half-heartily.

Retracing their steps they were about to pass the kitchen when she stopped dead cold. “The collection room.”

He stared at her, understanding dawning in his young eyes. Rushing her words, she said, “He wouldn’t have put the baby in the nursery. He would have considered his son, his own flesh and blood son, a prize.”

He finished in a bitter voice. “Something to be put on display, something worthy of his private collection.”

The pain and suffering of fourteen years were in his eyes.
How different would life have been if he were really Griffin Tanner’s son? Would he have been abused or cherished? What would have happened to him if his mother had not taken her own life and the life of her newly born baby? Would he have mysteriously disappeared?

Beth watched him, unable to imagine his thoughts.

When he looked up and saw sadness reflected in her eyes he spat out, “I wouldn’t have changed anything. I’m glad I’m not his, every beating I took was worth the price.”

Tears stung her eyes. She said in response, “I’m glad too. Robert was a good man. He deserves to have such a beautiful son, such a strong son.” She wiped her eyes and laughed, referring to Jared, “Two strong, beautiful sons.”

He looked at her in amazement. “You know? How? How long have you known?”

Her lip quivered. She said, “Upstairs when I saw your eyes—I saw Robert.” She wiped her eyes again and shook her head. “How could I have not known all these years? You look just like him.”

“You think so?” His voice was husky, his words choked out of a tight throat.

“Yes, I do.” She pulled back and looked down the dark passageway, “Now let’s go find the baby and get the hell out of this tomb.”

*

Large crates lined the walls of the collection room. In the center of the room was a single display case. There were several bronze plaques buried in the floor. In their single minded approach to finding the baby and getting the hell out of the basement they walked over the plaques without noticing.

Even knowing what to expect, Beth was shocked when she saw the tiny skeleton swaddled in a light blue baby blanket.

The name, Gideon, was etched on the plaque of the display case.

She touched the glass with uncertainty, unable to remove the case and pick up the small bundle.

Sensing her reservation, Barry stepped forward and pulled the shotgun sling over his head. He held the gun out to her. “Do you know how to use it?”

“It’s been awhile.”

He acknowledged her statement with his eyes then pointed at the chamber, “It’s loaded and the safety is off.” He placed the gun in her hands and said, “It’s up to you, I just can’t carry both.”

The gun felt heavy in her hands. She wondered briefly if she would have the strength to draw it up to her shoulder when the moment demanded. Then she remembered Griffin slamming the butt of his gun into Barry’s stomach and into his temple. She slung the strap over her neck. She would do whatever she had to do.

When Barry lifted the glass on the display case, a small shudder rolled through the foundation of the house. The support beams trembled. Dirt shifted, raining down on them.

She shouted, “Hurry up, we need to get out of here!”

He scooped up the baby, cradling the light bundle against his chest. The form was so delicate, he was afraid it would disintegrate inside the blanket before he could place it in his mother’s arms.

A large crack appeared in the dirt floor. One of the bronze plaques disappeared into the fissure. The crack widened, obstructing a swift exit. Around them, the walls continued to tremble and from the corridor came the distinct smell of smoke.

Holding the barrel of the shotgun across her chest and the flashlight in her right hand, Beth, looking more like a commando chick out of a B-movie than a single mom who worked down at the local diner, jumped over the widening crack and yelled for Barry to follow. “Jump!”

He jumped.

Something moved in the crevice. A hand reached up out of the earth. It grabbed his ankle as he crossed the dark gap. Barry fell forward, the baby clutched in his arms. Terrified, hot urine ran down his leg. In his prone position, his nose was literally touching one of the bronze plaques.

It was a grave marker.

Closing his eyes, he hollered as loud as he could. “Beth!”

Smoke billowed down the corridor. Beth turned back when she realized Barry had not come out of the room. The smoke, seeming to sense her intent, pushed forward surrounding her in a haze. Disoriented she stumbled as she tried to find her way back to the room. The smoke parted like a curtain, wanting her to see what lay beyond, enticing her to step forward and test the boundaries of her own sanity.

Giant pecan trees loomed in the night sky. Crickets were singing in the long grass, and the wind was blowing. The musty odor of mesquite floated in the air. Small sharp stones bit into the flesh of her feet. She looked down, confused, unable to remember why she had left the house in such a hurry. An unfamiliar sound was in the air. It crackled.

Trying to identify the crackling sound, she moved through bushes. Sharp branches scraped against her bare legs. A fire burned just beyond a line of old trucks. This was the source of the crackling sound. As she came closer she saw tents on fire. Rising above the crackle was a new sound. It was the sound of screams, high-pitched and undeniably human.

People were burning.

Beth knew this scene from her own nightmares as a child. After coming upon her calling a little, black girl “a dirty nigger,” her father, Thomas Edwards had wanted to teach a young Beth Edwards a lesson about intolerance. He had sat her down and told her in detail about the burning of the gypsy camp. He described the burnt husks found the next morning, some as small as she. He had said, ‘Small children Beth, those men let their hatred loose and they went up there and burned up women and children.’ Thomas Edwards was a big man. She had never seen her father show weakness, but when he said that last sentence she heard his voice crack and she about curled up and died from the shame and disappointment she saw on his face. Wanting to make it better she had said, “I would never set someone on fire.”