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DON'T GET MAD, GET EVEN
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2013 by Barb Goffman.
All rights reserved.
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Published by Wildside Press, LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
In honor of my dad,
who can always make me laugh.
And in memory of my sister-in-law Cyndi,
who left us way too soon.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This collection includes stories I wrote over the past decade, and the number of people who have helped me or influenced me during this time period is immense. Top in my mind are the authors from my critique groups, current and former: Donna Andrews, Tim Bentler-Jungr, Renee Brown, Erin Bush, Meriah Crawford, Sindy Felin, John Ford, C. Ellett Logan, Carolyn Mulford, Mary Nelson, Jack O’Donnell, Helen Schwartz, Shelley Shearer, Sylvia Straub, and Laura Weatherly.
Thank you to all my family and friends who have provided encouragement and assistance. Thank you to Noreen Wald, who taught my first mystery-writing class and made me think my writing was good when (looking back on it now) it really wasn’t. Thank you to Marcia Talley, who reached out to me several years ago and told me I should be writing novels—that was a real confidence booster. Thank you to my friends in Sisters in Crime, especially my friends in my local Chesapeake Chapter, who have always had my back. And thank you to Carla Coupe and John Betancourt at Wildside Press, who surprised me last year, saying they wanted to publish a collection of my stories. That was one of the best days of my life.
Finally, I give special thanks to Donna Andrews, who encouraged (okay, nagged) me to get back into writing when I had stopped with one published story under my belt. This collection would not exist if not for her.
NIGHTMARE
Smoke stung my eyes as I scrambled back against my headboard. The dragon kept coming, its nostrils breathing fire. Closer and closer. Its orange tongue lashed out, stinging my stomach. Searing it. I kicked and screamed. Tears blurred my vision. But the dragon kept scalding me over and over, while my skin bubbled in waves of pain. “No,” I yelled. Then I heard a thump.
I awoke with a start to the clap of thunder. Rain pelted against the roof, loud as a thousand marbles spilling onto the floor. I lay panting, snared in my twisted top sheet, drenched with sweat. The overhead fan whirling round and round flapped my summer babysitting schedule against my bulletin board, but did nothing to cool me. I could practically gulp the air.
Wrenching myself from my damp sheet, I tumbled out of bed and walked to the window, looking for…I didn’t know what. I couldn’t see anything in the backyard. The clouds had blocked the stars. Rain and a heavy breeze gusted in through the screen, raising goose bumps on my bare arms. I shivered despite the heat and shut the window.
I switched on my bedside lamp and tugged off my cami. Squinting, I rummaged through the clothes on the floor and pulled on shorts and one of my softball shirts. As I turned back to shut off the light, I elbowed a framed photo sitting on my bookshelf. It tipped backward, clinking against the one behind it before sliding onto the shelf with an even louder clang. I held my breath, listening, hoping I hadn’t woken Mama.…Nothing. Relieved, I picked up the picture. It was of Mama, Brady, and me, out to dinner last month, celebrating Brady’s graduation from high school and mine from middle school. Brady sat between Mama and me at the table, arms circling us, pulling us close. It had been a fun night, with the waitress mentioning how much Brady and I looked alike, with our wavy black hair and high cheekbones. How much we looked like Daddy.
I set that frame aside and picked up the dusty one behind it. It was of Mama and Daddy, a long time ago, back when she wore her auburn hair in a pixie cut. Daddy had his arm around her, his yellowed fingers squeezing her shoulder. I barely remembered Daddy. He ran off when I was six. Mama must have really loved him, though, because I couldn’t recall her ever looking at another man all these years.
I turned off the lamp and tiptoed out to our front porch, trying not to wake Mama or Brady. The swing cushion was damp from the mist, but I sat anyway. It was the second time tonight I’d curled up on the swing. The first time had been before I turned in, before the skies had opened. I had swayed for nearly an hour then, pushing the air around to the chorus of frogs in the nearby creek, wishing a cooling rain would finally come. Or that Mama would give in and buy us an air conditioner. That had been when Brady drove up after his evening shift at the 7-Eleven. He’d climbed out of Mama’s old pickup and stood by the truck door, a dark orange light flickering beside his face. I’d scooted back hard, trembling as I gripped the seat cushion. When had Brady started smoking? Mama wouldn’t like that one bit. As the overhead light in the pickup had begun to fade, Brady flicked the butt onto the gravel drive, swept rocks over it with his foot, and headed inside. I had sat quietly in the dark the whole time, breathing fast, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. I figured he didn’t want me in on his big secret.
Now, a few hours later, the rain had come, and I was gliding on the swing once more. I eased it back and forth, listening to the downpour as my thoughts flitted between Brady smoking and the dream I’d just had. The dragon coming at me. Closer and closer. I hadn’t thought about that dragon in years, though the nightmare had been a regular feature of my childhood.
Another clap of thunder shook the house. And shook my memories free.
* * * *
A half hour later, both my heart rate and the rain had slowed. I crept inside for my tennis shoes and a flashlight before going to the shed. Mama’s gardening gloves were right where I expected. I shoved them in my pocket. Then, shaking off raindrops sliding down my forehead, I pulled out a shovel.
The ground was soft as I trudged to the far corner of our property, each step like walking through a steam room. I stopped when I reached the big oak tree that I often lay against on hot summer days, drinking Mama’s lemonade and squishing my toes in the grass while I read under its protective shade. I patted the rough bark. That tree had always given me comfort.
I picked the lowest branch closest to the house and stepped beneath its tip. This seemed the right spot. I took a deep breath, the smell of the grass reminding me of my grandparents’ farm on mowing days. I shut off the flashlight and began digging, grateful there was no lightning tonight. Hoping none would come.
The earth gave way easily enough thanks to the storm. I dug for a while, my muscles appreciating the repetitive motion. The rain was much lighter now. Still, droplets snuck into my hair and wound down my back. And drizzle mixed with sweat pasted my bangs to my forehead. Wishing I’d pulled my hair into a ponytail, I paused to mop my face with my shirt. Then I continued digging.
It took longer than I’d expected. Finally the shovel hit something solid. I tugged on the garden gloves, fell to my knees, and began scooping away the dirt. Faster and faster. Soon I leaned back. I knew what I’d reached, but I clicked on the flashlight to be sure.
Bones—a lot of large ones—with a belt buckle, a pipe, and a lighter.
Daddy’s lighter. Red with a picture of a crown on the side.
I swallowed hard. So the memories were real, not just my imagination working overtime.
“You shouldn’t be out here, Mary Ellen.”
I stood and turned, aiming the flashlight at Brady’s feet so not to blind him. I hadn’t heard him come up, yet I wasn’t surprised to see him. Brady could walk like a ghost. As he had that night he saved me from Daddy. I blinked a few times, unable to tell if the water on my cheeks came from my eyes or the sky.
“And you shouldn’t smoke, Brady.”
“I thought I saw you on the porch when I got home.” He sighed. “A nasty habit, all right. After Daddy, you’d think I’d never touch a cigarette, but…” He shrugged.
I nodded. I’d keep my brother, warts and all. Mama had been upset when Brady insisted on going to our community