McFall Page 3

  There was a knock at the door, Mom’s gentle tapping. Dad didn’t knock, he banged or kicked. Or just shoved the door open, even when it was locked.

  “Come on in,” Bobby said, cracking his U.S. history textbook to make it look like he cared about his upcoming finals.

  Vernell Eldreth entered, smelling of the bleach and lemon soap she used in her housekeeping job. She had not aged well. Her reddish-brown curls had been long and flowing in her youth, and that, combined with cute freckles and flashing green eyes, had turned the heads of every boy in Titusville. Most of the boys knew not to get too serious. It wouldn’t do to get a girl pregnant when her folks were two missed paychecks away from food stamps, but Elmer had persevered and eventually won the prize. He’d been bitching and moaning about it ever since.

  Vernell stood by the door, respecting her son’s space. “How are you, honey?”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  I could say the same about you. She’d had a cardiac scare that had turned out to be a thyroid problem, and now she was on some expensive medicine to keep the engine running steady. Her girlish freckles had bloated into big, brown blotches on her face, and wrinkles creased the corners of her mouth and eyes. Her blunt-tipped fingers were chapped from years of scrubbing.

  “I’m studying,” he said, staring at the book as if he truly gave a damn about the Monroe Doctrine.

  “It’s a shocking thing, to find a dead body like that.”

  “I didn’t really find it. I was just there.”

  “It came at a bad time, though. You got tests, the dance, and the conference playoffs. You don’t need any distractions.”

  “A man got killed. I’d say he’s the one that got distracted.”

  “It’s harder on you because of what happened to the Davis boy all those years ago.”

  Bobby bit back his rage. If he acted like the pain was still fresh, Mom would “be concerned.” His friend Vernon Ray Davis had vanished in a cave that had collapsed on Mulatto Mountain, and his body was never found. Bobby knew the cave was haunted, and he hadn’t gone back there in years for fear that he might see Vernon Ray’s ghost. Everybody else, including his dad, had developed a case of collective amnesia about the whole thing. Even the sheriff’s report still officially listed his friend as missing, as if Vernon Ray had simply hopped a Greyhound to Kokomo or something.

  From what Ronnie had told him about the McFalls and the red church, Bobby had decided Pickett County was some sort of Twilight Zone where you were better off not thinking too much.

  “Mom, all I have to do is finish the school year, and I’m outta here. None of this will matter anymore.”

  “Not then, but it does now. I’m old, but not so old that I’ve forgotten what it’s like. Everything’s just bigger now for you, more important. High school is life and death.”

  Bobby was uncomfortable with this chat, because it was turning his mother into a human being with memories, hopes, and fears instead of the stranger who made sure he had clean blue jeans for school. “If I don’t pass this history test, it’s going to be death, because you’re going to kill me.”

  “All you need is a C. No pressure.”

  Elmer appeared behind his wife, smelling of beer, sweat, and hair oil. “He don’t need good grades. He’s getting drafted next month.”

  Bobby couldn’t help glancing over at his baseball glove on the dresser. The leather had been carefully treated with Murphy’s Oil Soap until it gleamed. A baseball was tucked into the webbing, the seams of the white orb showing. When he played ball, the glove was like a sentient part of his body. He was a superhero on the diamond, and like Spiderman taking off his mask and becoming plain old Peter Parker, Bobby out of uniform was just another kid from the trailer park.

  “Coach Harnett said that’s a long shot,” Bobby said.

  “The Braves sent scouts to see you. So did the Marlins.”

  “We were playing East Wilkes. They were scouting Hernandez, not me.”

  “Honey, be happy he has a scholarship,” his mother said to his dad.

  Bobby had inked a letter of intent to play at Appalachian State University, contingent upon qualifying academically. That was one reason finals were important. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to go to college, even though App State was only an hour away. But he wanted to make his mom proud and shut up his dad, so he figured he’d put in a year and see what happened.

  If nothing else, it would get him out of Titusville and away from all the ghosts and memories.

  “Bobby’s picked up four miles per hour on his fastball this season,” Elmer said. “Once the scouts lock the radar gun on him, he’s in. Even late-round picks are getting decent signing bonuses.”

  “If he signs, he won’t be able to attend college,” Vernell said. “And he might never make it out of the minors.”

  Bobby slammed both fists down on his desk, standing so suddenly that Vernell drew in an audible gasp. “I’m not a meal ticket,” he said. “In two weeks, I’m graduating, and I get to decide what happens to me. The least you two can do is to stop talking about it like I’m not here.”

  Elmer’s face reddened with alcoholic anger. “Listen here, boy. I’ve wriggled under houses in raw sewer to put food on this table. And as long as you’re under my roof, I’ve got a say.”

  “Some roof,” Bobby said. “A shitty stretch of tin that leaks in a hard drizzle.”

  “Goddamn it, don’t you cuss in front of your momma.”

  Vernell tried to shrink back into the hall and disappear, but Elmer blocked her retreat. Yet Elmer didn’t push her around any either. Bobby was five inches taller than Elmer, and although Elmer had the edge in weight, his was all hanging over his belt buckle, while Bobby’s was bound in muscle around his chest and shoulders.

  Bobby closed his textbook and shoved it into his backpack. He shouldered his way out the door, Elmer grudgingly giving ground. “You forgot your glove,” his dad said.

  “I’m not throwing tonight,” Bobby said. “I’m studying.”

  Elmer tried a familiar guilt trip. “I was rolling a ball back and forth to you when you was in diapers. I played catch with you even when my back was knotted up from work. I tossed you batting practice until dark. I made you what you are.”

  Bobby was disgusted by his father’s chronic beer breath and the faint smell of sickness that hung about him, as if his organs were rotting inside his abdomen. “You have no idea what I am.”

  “Please, Bobby,” Vernell said as he passed her, patting him on the shoulder. But she didn’t articulate what her plea was for. She’d always failed to stand up to Elmer beyond a token resistance, and her weakness depressed Bobby. Long after he was paroled from this cramped metal prison, she’d be trapped here in a life sentence with a man who didn’t respect her at all.

  As Bobby fled through the living room, the broadcaster droned about a player’s batting average against left-handed pitchers. He wished he had a baseball bat. He’d shatter the screen and scream, “Foul tip!” just to watch Elmer’s face turn purple.

  He walked out into the cool May evening. The rain had diminished but the moisture clung to the new blossoms of spring, filling the air with a lush, sweet smell. He tossed the backpack into the passenger seat of his Toyota pickup, started it up, and drove away. He thought about popping the clutch and spinning gravel against the trailer, but Jeff Davis, the trailer park owner, would issue one of his prissy little warnings in the mail.

  On Highway 321, Bobby immediately felt better. He plugged his iPod into the sound system and tapped the wheel in time to the Black Keys. He’d learned to play the drums on straight-up, four-beat rock-n-roll, and even though his chosen genre was now an endangered species, a garage rock band was much easier to form than a string quartet or a hip-hop ensemble.

  Bobby had no intention of studying history. He could probably coast to a C just on memory, and even if he flunked, he didn’t mind going to summer school. That beat hell out of working
for Elmer’s plumbing business. By the time Bobby wheeled the pick-up onto Taylor Lake Road, the tension had drained from his body.

  When he pulled into the McAllister’s driveway, the reality of his station in life slapped him in the face. Parked beside Dex’s new Jeep was a Lincoln Town Car, a Mercedes, and a 30-foot bass boat. A dozen Eldreth-sized mobile homes could fit inside the family’s two-story Tudor-style house. The windows were all brightly lit, even though most of the rooms were unoccupied.

  Hell with it. I’m here to rock.

  But as he dug into his backpack for his drumsticks, he couldn’t help fantasize about signing a big, fat contract to play for the Atlanta Braves. First thing he’d buy would be a Jeep with even bigger mud grips than Dex’s, and then he’d buy his mom a nice, classy ride. Dad could walk to hell and back for all Bobby cared.

  The door opened before he knocked. Even though the McAllister home had a two-car garage, the band gear was set up in the basement. Mac McAllister had said he didn’t want any vomit stains on his nice concrete floor, and besides, he’d added with a wink, “The closer to the devil you get, the better the music, right?”

  “Yo,” Dex said from the doorway. “You’re early.”

  “Never too early to jam. Besides, if we’re going to play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ at the dance, I’ve got to hone my chops.”

  Dex emitted a Robert Plant screech in the high registers, a sound like a possessed banshee mating with the wrong end of a rhinoceros. “I hear you, man. Let’s rock.”

  He slapped Dex on the back and led him into the basement. Besides some weights and other workout gear, a widescreen TV, and a ping pong table, much of the space was occupied by Bobby’s drum kit and stacks of amplifiers. All the money he had earned helping his dad had gone into expanding the kit. The drum kit wasn’t quite on the level of the legendary John Bonham’s of Led Zeppelin, but Bobby was more proud of it than of the no-hitter he’d tossed last month against Covington High.

  Dex, as owner of the jam space, was the self-appointed lead singer of The Diggers, although his unappealing vocal combination of shrieking and growling had been compared to a full-moon midnight at the animal shelter. “Been working on a new tune,” Dex said.

  “Cool.” Bobby sat on the stool and thumped the bass drum, rolling the sticks lightly around the drumheads to test their tightness. Soon he was lost in the rattle and thud, a world where the Braves and Dad and Melanie Ward and U.S. history were kept at bay by a sheer wall of sound.

  Floyd Frady, the bass player, couldn’t practice tonight because he had to babysit his little sister. Their lead guitarist, Jimmy Dale Massingale, was ten times the picker that Dex was, but he didn’t have an original bone in his body. So Dex used the five chords he knew to craft a cacophony with a predictable rhythm that made it easy for the other band members to follow along. Dex had written several songs so far, most of them variations on “Gonna Do Ya,” including the unforgettable “Gotta Digg It”—Dex made a big deal of spelling it “D-I-G-G” even though a listener would never know the difference—and “Whole Lot of Loving,” which was a direct rip-off of a Led Zeppelin rip-off of the black blues masters. Bobby had suggested they spell “whole” H-O-L-E, since the band was called “The Diggers,” but Dex said that was stupid.

  Dex plugged in his Fender Telecaster and strummed a chord. A couple of the notes were out of tune, but he didn’t seem to mind. He punched a phase pedal, ramping up the distortion so much that tuning no longer mattered, then stepped up to the mike in front of the drum kit. “Ya ready?” Dex bellowed, assuming an arrogant thrusting of his hip as he strummed.

  “What’s the tempo?” Bobby said, easing off until he was vamping the snare drum along with a splashy accent of the high hat.

  “Four-beat, hard rock,” Dex said with a sneer, as if there were no other time signatures or timbres. “Huh-ONE two three FAWWWW.”

  Bobby fell into the rhythm as Dex strummed madly for a few strokes and then dipped his mouth to the microphone. Dex’s dad had bought them a killer sound system, so Dex’s vocals were clear even above their combined racket: “Once had a friend name o’ Vernon Raaaay.…”

  Bobby filled in the back of the line as Dex cha-chunked and tore into the next line: “Can’t say for sure but I think he was gaaay.…”

  Bobby faltered, his foot slipping on the bass drum pedal, but Dex didn’t notice, caught up in his own joyful superstar fantasies. He strummed and sang again. “Got lost in a hole and never came back.…”

  Bobby stopped in mid-bar, the ride cymbal still ringing along with Dex’s electric guitar. Dex barely even noticed the absence of the drums as he completed the stanza. “Some kinda monster pulled him into the black.”

  Bobby shoved away from the drum kit, knocking the high hat over. It fell against the snare and tumbled to the floor with a shivery crash. Bobby headed for the door, cheeks burning.

  “Hey, man,” Dex shouted. He stopped strumming but feedback squealed from his amplifier. “That last line needs some work, but it’s got a solid beat.”

  Bobby turned, his fists clenched. “You can’t sing about Vernon Ray.”

  Dex, seeing the serious set of Bobby’s jaw, flipped off his amp and let the guitar dangle limply from its strap. “You’re the one who said our songs were too much like jock-rock. I was trying to draw from personal experience. Do something real.”

  “Well, it’s shitty. He’s dead, and you’re still picking on him.”

  Dex held his arms apart in mock indignation. “It’s been five years, Bobby. The statute of limitations must have run out on your guilt trip.”

  The door opened behind Bobby and Jimmy Dale sauntered in, flipping his long, greasy hair out of his eyes. He was carrying a guitar case and a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, like a hipster redneck on holiday. “Yo, dawgs, what’s the haps?” he said, and then picked up on the tension. “Bummer. Don’t tell me the band broke up while I was out stealing some brews.”

  “We’re just having what you might call ‘creative differences,’” Dex said. “You don’t reach the top without a little give and take. The Lennon-McCartney thing.”

  “Dex has another stupid song,” Bobby said to Jimmy Dale.

  “Just four lines,” Dex said. “I need some help on the bridge.”

  “You need help on everything,” Bobby said.

  Jimmy Dale set down his guitar case and gave Bobby an exaggerated hug. “My man’s in a mood. How about we smoke a joint?”

  “Can’t,” Bobby said. “I got a history test coming up and I’m pitching in the playoffs next week.”

  “Aw, don’t tell me you’re choosing reality over rock-n-roll?” Dex taunted. “When do you really feel alive? When you’re in their world, or when you’re kicking out the jams?”

  Bobby looked over at the drum kit. He’d actually started playing because of Vernon Ray, who had longed to be a drummer boy in the local Civil War re-enactments. In a way, Bobby was pounding the skins for V-Ray as much as for himself.

  “To hell with it,” he said, grinning at Jimmy Dale. “Fire it up.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Barkersville was the nearest incorporated town to the McFall property and the red church, but Titusville was the county seat. Larkin McFall had decided he’d best start out big and get bigger instead of starting small and working his way up like so many McFalls had tried before him. He was a man who learned from the mistakes of others.

  Bernard Gunter and Logan Extine were the county’s biggest property attorneys, the first to learn about foreclosed property and short sales. They’d done pretty well for themselves when the housing bubble burst and now were taking advantage of historically low interest rates to add even more land to their empires. By Gunter’s reckoning, they owned nearly twenty percent of the county between them, although most of the purchases were by dummy corporations with Charlotte addresses so that they could still play the part of small-town neighbors interested in the community good. Larkin loved working with men like them, even if it meant he had t
o forego the pleasure of subtly corrupting his subjects.

  We all must make our little sacrifices to serve the greater good.

  Larkin had selected 24/7 Waffle for their Sunday afternoon meeting. He didn’t want to sneak around and make people suspicious. No, he wanted the town to open its arms to him. They were partners, after all—Larkin couldn’t fulfill his mission here alone.

  The crowd was a mix of after-church families in their polyester JC Penney finery, hungover youths, and retirees who seemed to be turning to dust even as their crablike fingers snapped at packets of sugar and artificial creamer. The waffle house served up the usual greasy spoon specials but also offered some healthier alternatives like yogurt fruit salad and whole-grain bagels. While Gunter and Extine went for the Trucker’s Platter, Larkin contented himself with coffee and an order of hash browns, with plenty of ketchup.

  “The McFall property’s been up for sale for nearly five years,” Gunter said, mopping at his perpetually sweating bald head with a white silk handkerchief. “Archer McFall was listed as the property’s legal owner, which made things a little tricky.”

  “I understand he disappeared,” Larkin said. “According to legend and the official police report.”

  “Yeah,” Extine said, talking around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. His face was like a magpie’s, his large nose making his eyes seem tiny. “We had to get a friendly judge to vacate Archer’s claims to the property. Even though the other heirs couldn’t legally have him declared dead, they found an obscure statute that waived his rights of interest.”

  “That’s good,” Larkin said. “I don’t want anything to come back and bite us.”

  Larkin was aware that Gunter had fabricated bills of sale for at least seven of the twelve remaining heirs. Those seven were scattered across the country, and in one case, across the Pacific Ocean, and probably weren’t even aware they were due a cut. No doubt they would have gladly sold out for less than the few thousand that Extine had listed on the contracts.