Devil's Creek Page 6

  A bit, he realized. He circled the block around what used to be First National, discovering a larger corporate bank had swallowed up his grandmother’s bank of choice in his absence. Main Street itself wasn’t the desolate strip he’d expected it would be. Cars and trucks lined the parking spaces, their owners bustling along the sidewalks, ignorant of this outsider in their midst. Stauford had grown up, or maybe it was always like this and he just didn’t remember. In either case, Jack was taken aback by the signs of life, and was so absorbed in his memories he didn’t see the light change. A car honked, and he turned left.

  He circled the block again, this time following Kentucky Street to its conclusion, where it terminated at the south end of Main Street. He took the opportunity to turn back on to Main Street and see the town in all its modern glory.

  Town Hall was remodeled in his years away, looking less like the old office building of his youth and more like something one would see at a state capitol, with white columns and a domed roof to match. He’d once witnessed the beginnings of a Klan rally on the building’s front steps. Peering from the back seat of Mamaw Imogene’s green Cadillac, he’d asked her why all those men were dressed up as ghosts. She’d looked back at him in the rearview and said, “They’re bigots, honey.”

  “What’s a bigot, Mamaw?”

  She’d thought about it for a moment, but the answer came to her just as easily. “Bigots are cowards. They’re dressed up so people can’t see their faces.”

  “Are they scaredy cats?”

  “Dumb scaredy cats.”

  Decades later, as he sat in traffic, he turned and saw the old municipal building across the street was now home to the Stauford Laundromat. A smaller sign in the window also claimed they bought gold for cash. The juxtaposition gave him a good laugh that lasted through most of the traffic.

  Chuck Tiptree’s office sat across the street from where Huffington’s Drugstore used to be, except now the square, brick building was home to a small coffee shop. The next block over, what used to be Ron’s Department Store was now a bar and restaurant called Devlin’s On Main. Jack parked the car along the curb and sighed. The town had changed drastically in his time away. A new generation built over the bones of the old. The corpses were still there, but a new sort of creature inhabited them. Time finally moved in Stauford, something he’d once thought impossible.

  Jack looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Had he changed all that much? He studied the lines on his face, the hints of silver in his hair, the darkening spots of age in his cheeks and forehead. The man in his reflection looked a lot different than the boy who’d wandered these streets on Halloween or watched the annual parade with an ice cream cone in his hand—but somewhere in the eyes, there was still a spark of youth. Somewhere, where his dreams still haunted him, and the darkness filled his lungs with the foul musty air of untold ages. That child was still in there somewhere, and he was screaming.

  Hot air clouded his face, stealing his breath from him, and he escaped to fresh air and the smell of roasting coffee from across the street. The aroma lingered on his taste buds, and he wished he had time to get a cup before his meeting.

  “Jack?”

  He closed the door behind him and looked up. A paunchy man with cropped silver hair and a goatee to match stood in the office doorway. His bulbous cheeks were bright red and beaded with sweat. Jack would recognize that shitty grin anywhere.

  “Chuckie?”

  “Jackie, you lanky son of a bitch! Come ‘ere.”

  Chuck Tiptree bounded across the sidewalk and gave Jack a bear hug. Jack tried to pat his old friend’s back, grimacing slightly at the wetness of Chuck’s sweaty shirt.

  “Goddamn, man, how long’s it been? Fifteen years? Twenty?”

  “Twenty this month,” Jack said, forcing a smile. “How’ve you been?”

  Chuck nodded, gesturing to his office. “Not bad, man. Getting by, making ends meet. The usual.” Silence fell between the two men as Chuck’s words sank in. Jack was gone so long he didn’t know what “the usual” entailed. Chuck Tiptree cleared his throat, his swollen cheeks suddenly pale. “Anyway, you’ve come a long way to meet with little ol’ me. Step into my office, Mr. Tremly.”

  2

  “Glass of ice water?”

  Chuck’s secretary, Diane, stuck her head through the open doorway of the conference room. Her withered cheeks were flushed, the buoyant poof of her bouffant hair nearly lost to heat and sweat. She stared down at him with wide yellowing eyes while fanning herself with the morning edition of the Stauford Tribune.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Sorry, bud.” Chuck wandered in after her and plunked down a box of paperwork on the table. “The A/C died a couple days ago and the repair guy can’t get out here until this afternoon. So…”

  He trailed off as he ducked out of the room. A moment later, Chuck returned with a portable desk fan. Warm, stale air blasted Jack’s face.

  “There,” Chuck said, panting. He took a seat across from Jack as Diane brought in two tall glasses of ice water.

  “Fresh from the dispenser,” she said. “Here you go.”

  Chuck nodded. “Thanks, hon.”

  “No problem, Mr. Tiptree.” She turned back for the door, but before she left, Diane placed her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Tremly.”

  He offered her a thin smile. “Thank you.” The pity on her wrinkled face told him his smile wasn’t believable. She tightened her arthritic fingers on him, offering a firm gesture of condolence before leaving the room. Once she’d closed the door behind her, Jack reached for the glass and drank greedily.

  “Bet you forgot about these hot Septembers, huh?”

  Jack took one last gulp and wiped his mouth. “How’s that?”

  “I mean, with you livin’ up in New England all these years, you must get, what, three days of summer?”

  Jack laughed. “Hardly. You should come visit New York in the middle of a summer heatwave sometime.”

  Smiling, Chuck leaned back and looked at the file box between them.

  “So what were you saying earlier? Someone vandalized Genie’s house?”

  Jack nodded, pulled out his phone, and showed him the photos. Chuck’s cheeks blossomed in fresh red splotches.

  “Did you report it?”

  “Didn’t have to,” Jack said, pocketing the phone. “Ruth McCormick told me she called the police station to report it a couple days ago. Thinks it might’ve been Ronny Cord’s kid. She says hi, by the way.”

  Chuck sighed. “If it was Ronny’s little shit stain, you can bet money Ozzie Bell won’t do shit about it. Those Cro-Magnon window-lickers take care of their own. Anyway, I know a guy who does good window work. I can give him a call later if you want?”

  “I’d like that,” Jack said. “Thank you.”

  Chuck waved him off. “Forget about it,” he said, unpacking several green legal folders wrapped in rubber bands. “I guess we should get down to business?”

  “I guess so.”

  Chuck Tiptree went over the specifics of Imogene Tremly’s last will and testament without much fanfare. Where he was all fun and games around his friends, he was nothing but professional when it came to his clients’ legal affairs, a trait which Jack appreciated now more than ever. As she had no living spouse, and with her only child committed to the psychiatric ward of Baptist Regional, Imogene Tremly’s affairs of estate would be handled by one Charles Tiptree, Esquire, whom she named sole executor.

  “I had the opportunity to meet with your grandmother a handful of times before she passed. She considered you her only living heir, Jackie. The only one who matters, anyway. A small portion of her estate was set aside to be donated to the Stauford Fire Company for saving her daddy’s barn back in the day. There are still some bills to collect and get paid. Less the government’s cut and my fee—which is nominal—and provided no one comes out of the woodwork with a surprise claim, I’d say you’ve got yourself a nice nest eg
g to retire on. I think you’ll find everything’s in order.” Chuck extracted a sheet from his file and slid it across the table. “Once you sign, we can get started, and you’ll have a paycheck in six months or so. Easy-peasy.”

  Jack looked over the document, which was an itemization of estate assets, taxes, and Chuck’s fees—which were, Jack discovered, quite nominal indeed. And the nest egg his friend mentioned was more than enough for Jack to retire on. All told, Mamaw Genie left him the better part of two million dollars. Jack did well for himself as an artist, far better than most in his profession, and he would not go down in history as one of the starving geniuses of the trade, but the net amount on that piece of paper made his heart stop. He didn’t know Mamaw Genie had that kind of money.

  “There’s also the matter of her house to discuss.”

  He looked up as Chuck drained the last of his ice water from the glass. “I’m sorry?”

  “Her house is part of the declared value. Not much in comparison to the rest of her liquidated assets, but…”

  Chuck’s words faded into the background hum of the oscillating fan. Jack closed his eyes and sighed, trying to hold back the tide of emotions churning inside him. He’d suspected she’d leave him the house—it was his birthright, after all. A family heirloom of the highest degree built with his grandfather’s own hands. At the same time, however, he questioned how the hell he could take care of such a place. Jack spent most of his time either working on his art, talking about his art, presenting his art, or sleeping and dreaming nightmares which fed his art. Keeping up with the demands of a house were beyond his range of capabilities, much less one over a thousand miles away.

  Chuck cleared his throat. “Jack? You still with me?”

  “What?” Jack barked, stunned by the sound of his own voice. “Sorry, I’m…still processing all of this.”

  “S’all good, Jack. I understand. It can be a lot to take in, believe me. Is it the money or the house?”

  “Both,” Jack admitted. “I had no idea my grandmother had that kind of bread stashed away, and the house…” He held up his hands, flustered. “I can’t come down here every time there’s a problem, you know?”

  Chuck nodded. “Understandable. The money’s an easy one. Your grandmother invested well. Most of the money belonged to her daddy, which he passed on to her, and now she’s leaving it to you. It’s yours to do with as you wish. As for the house, that’s not so simple. Legally, you’re free to do what you want with it. There’s no provision in the will that you can’t sell the house…” He met Jack’s gaze. “…but you and I both know Genie wouldn’t care for that. The house and land have been in your family for generations.”

  “Now you sound like her,” Jack mumbled.

  “I know I do,” Chuck said. “I’m the executor, remember? That’s my job. Anyway, I’m sure a big shot like yourself can figure something out. Maybe fix it up, call it a summer home.”

  “Would you spend your summers here?”

  Chuck gestured to his conference room, the oscillating fan, the stacks of file boxes lining the walls. “Baby, I’m living this every day. This shit’s my life!”

  They shared a laugh, but the mood died quickly, giving way to the low hum of the fan punctuating the silence between them. Chuck drummed his fingers on the table, mumbling to himself. Finally, he slapped his hand on the table, startling Jack from his thoughts.

  “I almost forgot. There’s one more thing.”

  Chuck dug into the file box and retrieved a small wooden case. He slid it across the table to his client.

  Jack held the box in his hand. The wood was polished to a shine. Trembling, he opened the clamshell lid, and frowned when he saw its contents.

  Laid out on a red velvet interior was an old metal key, its surface tarnished dark with age. He’d never seen it before, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what it unlocked.

  “Was there anything else with this?”

  Chuck was in the middle of returning some of the folders to the box. He paused and shook his head. “That’s all she gave me, man. I assumed you’d know what it’s for.”

  Jack sighed. “No, I don’t.” He rolled the key in his hands, gauging its weight. The metal was thick, its teeth carved with an intricate design that would’ve taken its maker days to etch, and the rounded end was polished smooth. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore, he thought.

  Chuck Tiptree closed the box and planted both plump hands on the table. “Say, you hungry? It’s almost lunchtime and I’m starvin’. You can sign this paperwork later. Let’s get a bite.”

  He’d not considered food since leaving Ruth’s house, but now his stomach groaned in discontent at the thought of sustenance. “Yeah, now that you mention it. Is the old Burger Stand still in business?”

  “My man,” Chuck grinned. “Come on, my treat.”

  3

  Chuck offered to drive, a gesture for which Jack was grateful. He’d happily admitted defeat to the changes wrought by time, and being a passenger afforded him an opportunity to sightsee for the first time that day.

  Although Stauford’s Main Street had undergone a facelift in recent years, Jack was delighted to discover some of its institutions hadn’t changed at all. The powder blue water tower overlooking the town from atop Gordon Hill still stood, announcing “Stauford Welcomes You” in swirly red letters.

  Banners stretched between buildings over Main Street, announcing the upcoming “Miss Stauford” beauty pageant, along with the dates of the town’s fall street festival. Jack missed them until Chuck pointed them out.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much they wanna charge to advertise in the festival program.”

  They turned off Main Street and back on to Kentucky Avenue toward the south end of town. The Piggly Wiggly was no longer in business, replaced by a massive hardware store. The local pizza joint was still open, though, and seeing its subdued orange lettering on the windows brought back memories of his first date with a girl named Megan Briarson. They’d kissed awkwardly at the end of the night, their breath tainted with the stench of garlic, and the following week they’d acted like strangers to one another at school. Jack felt a pang of regret over that, and he idly wondered what she was up to these days. He hoped she was happy.

  Half a mile up the road, Chuck turned right onto 18th Street. Jack craned his neck to take in the massive temple of asphalt and concrete at the corner, home to a Walgreens.

  “There used to be a produce stand there,” he said. “Mamaw Genie used to shop there every week.”

  “A lot’s changed, brother. Tends to happen when you run off to be a big shot in the city.” Chuck smiled when he said it, but Jack took the jab in the gut. He felt more than a little guilty, a feeling which he told himself was irrational, but the remorse sat like a hot lump of lead in his chest. He thought of the friends he knew, the promises to keep in touch, the bonds he thought would never be severed—and all of them were replaced by his drive to leave, to tackle the world, to transmute his pain into something he could sell.

  Jack Tremly left Stauford to become something more than a dirty town secret. Maybe the others dealt with that legacy in their own ways, but not him. He had to get away, go someplace where no one knew him, and rebuild himself in any shape he wanted.

  His task accomplished, he’d returned to find the world he once knew had changed and moved on without him, and how dare he feel entitled to anything different. Time didn’t stop with you leaving, honey. You can’t expect it to. That’s vanity.

  Mamaw Genie’s words in his head again, guiding him through another silent crisis. Their comfort was always welcome, and he clung to them like a child to a soft blanket.

  “And here it is, my man.” Chucks words tore him from his reverie, and Jack looked up from the car’s dashboard as they turned off the road into a crowded parking lot. A small, squat building sat in the center, with a large overhang extending half the length of the lot. Cars were parked underneath like calves suckling at their mother.


  “One of the few reasons you’d ever want to leave I-75.”

  Jack smiled. “Is that your professional opinion?”

  They found a spot at the far end of the lot and parked. Chuck turned off the engine and grinned. “As your attorney, I would strongly advise it.”

  The Stauford Burger Stand was a city icon. Opened in the summer of 1956, under a partnership between the brothers Willie and Donald Chastain, the Stauford Burger Stand earned itself a reputation of having the best burgers and chili in the region. He opened his window and took a deep breath. The scent of the grill and twangy country music swirled around him, taking him back to simpler times. His stomach growled in anticipation.

  “God, I’ve missed this place.”

  “Tell me about it. I dream about this place, and I live here. Hasn’t changed since you left and probably won’t even after we’re long gone. I’m having a Dixie burger. You?”

  “I’ll have the same,” Jack said. “And fries. Root beer, too.”

  Chuck signaled to one of the waitresses in the kitchen, and a moment later, a thin blonde approached with a pen and notepad in her hand.

  “Hey, Susan,” Chuck said. “You’ll never believe who’s with me today.”

  Jack looked up and did a double take. She’d changed clothes since he’d seen her earlier in the cemetery, but there was no mistaking the dirty blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, the cold stare, and dimples betraying the promise of a smile.

  Susan Prewitt leaned into the open window and smirked. “Jackie Tremly, as I live and breathe.” She reached in, and he shook her hand, noting the circular tattoo on her wrist. “The years have been kind.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to see you again,” he said, stunned. “Since this morning, I mean.”

  She smiled, but her eyes told a different story, and for a moment he feared he might wither under her gaze. It was a stare of silent fury, the sort reserved for scolding mothers not wanting to make a scene. Not another word, that stare said. Or else.