Later that day I found my clothes. Gabrielle was pulling them from the washing machine when I stumbled into the kitchen. They were wet and clean, the cycle completed, so I said nothing and allowed her to continue. There seemed little point in drawing attention to what had otherwise passed unremarked.
The verdict of the inquest was predictable — death by drowning whilst under the influence of alcohol — and I pray there isn’t an afterlife or Stella will have died a second time through shame. I returned to Le Coisel, determined to sell, determined to have the etang filled in. In the event, I have done neither.
To be frank, there seems little point. I never go near the Devil’s Pond now, and nor, I feel sure, do the locals. This latest incident will have done nothing to diminish its evil reputation. And as for selling...
I thought at first I would move south, but I find I am strangely content here. Yellow flags again line the riverbank and damsel flies dart jewel-like amongst the leaves. It is a haven of peace and tranquillity. I sit daily beside the water and have come to rely on its gentle murmur for solace, even, I suspect, for inspiration. I have begun writing again and my first novel for many years is under way. I see little reason to move.
Perhaps content is too strong a word... The night of the tragedy is never far from my mind and at times I am deeply troubled. But there are some fears one cannot fully express even to oneself. That way lies madness.
I am a gentle soul, I tell myself, when I lie awake in the early hours, heart pounding and bathed in sweat. I am kind and compassionate, incapable of inflicting even the mildest hurt. But then the other voice begins to speak, soft and insidious, reminding me that we are all capable of good and evil, and that I, as a writer, should know that better than most. Whereupon I begin to sweat again and strain to hear the former voice for reassurance. How well, I wonder, do any of us truly know ourselves?
©2009 by Caroline Benton
For the Love of Mary Hooks
by Christopher Bundy
Christopher Bundy’s fiction and essays have appeared in Atlanta Magazine, Glimmer Train Stories, The Rambler, and many other publications. He is a teacher and a founding editor of the journal New South in Atlanta, Georgia. He joins us for the first time with a story that explores the mystique and magnetism of The Beatles. A small kernel of fact helped to inspire this story: there were actual accounts of barbers going out of business in the 1960s because of the popularity of the popularity of the Beatle cut.
Where the Cul-de-sac Met the Railroad Tracks
When Dobson Johns found Donny Palmer by the railroad tracks, Lake Claire, Georgia, embarked upon a change, just like the world beyond that had begun to surface in the newspapers and on TV. The citizens of Lake Claire thought the con-fusing headlines from Atlanta, Washington, and abroad, however forbidding, wouldn’t make it to their town; and for the most part the town stood still. But then, among the odd rhythms of the summer of 1966, even blue sky was fleeting, buckets of rain submerging pastures and overflowing streams and rivers. Not a patch of solid ground to be found. Lake Claire, which never had a lake, only a few places where water seemed to collect more than others, went swampy. As soon as you rested on firm earth it gave way beneath. Inside the houses of the small south-Georgia town the sheets were damp and towels never dried. Clothes clung to warm backs and it was best to sit still and let the sound of rain quiet your heart. And for the first time it seemed even the television went muddy, revealing, nightly, a window onto a more and more inconceivable and unpredictable decade.
For the Love of Mary Hooks
Through the curtain of constant rain, Mary Hooks caught her second look at Donny Palmer. Hidden in the shadows of the entranceway to Drucker’s 5 & 10 on the opposite side of Corbett Street, she watched as the boy and his mother dashed into the Dairy Queen. Mary had seen the boy only once before, when his father, Don Senior, had showed up to tell her he had to stay home that night — something had come up and his wife Dale expected him. In the rain, Don Senior had stood hovering in the doorway to keep her from his son’s view. But she saw the boy, a beautiful blur behind the streaked glass of his father’s Pontiac LeMans, shaggy blond bangs over his eyes. From the Dairy Queen, mother and son sprinted to Carmello’s Barbershop where, under the awning, they shook off the rain. The boy’s mother pushed open the shop door, but Donny shook his head and refused to enter, stepping back from the meaty figure of the town barber and into the rain.
The truth about Carmello DeNino was that ever since The Beatles first appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show he stopped liking boys altogether. The barber scowled from behind his chair, disgusted with the boys of Lake Claire who had let their hair grow long: first the front and sides, over the eyes and past the ears, and to their collars, where it curled like a girl’s. Then they stopped coming altogether. The Palmer boy, an oddball already, Carmello told anybody who would listen, was the first to refuse a haircut. But others followed. And here the boy was, standing in the rain, again refusing a haircut.
For eighteen years Carmello stood each morning before the American flag that flew from his barbershop. His massive hand spread over his swelling chest as he recited the Pledge of Allegiance with a solemn shake of his head, to show the people of Lake Claire he was an American, the best you could possibly be. But after two decades of running an honest business in Lake Claire, Carmello spoke painfully of the declining number of young customers in his shop each day.
Mary Hooks watched as the boy’s mother appeared to plead with her son to enter the shop, angry, yes, Mary thought, but more disheartened than anything else. Donny remained steadfast in the rain, as if to underscore his defiance. The boy’s mother dropped her head in surrender and entered the barbershop, nodding apologies at the immigrant barber, who had a moustache like Stalin, the cheeks of a bulldog, and a head like a fuzzy pumpkin. Donny stepped back under the awning and out of the rain. Crossing the street to get a better view of the rain-soaked, shaggy-haired boy, Mary sought shelter under the same awning.
“Just can’t stay dry these days, can we?” she said to him as she shook water from her umbrella.
“No, ma’am,” Donny answered, his eyes still on his mother and the big barber inside, who stood with his beefy arms folded across his chest.
Mary stirred at the boy’s formal “ma’am.” At twenty-two she was not used to hearing such formal greetings. “Not ready for a haircut yet, I guess.”
Donny acknowledged the pretty stranger with rosebud lips, brown eyes, and short dark hair with a puzzled glance her way. But he didn’t hold his gaze; he pushed wet bangs from his eyes and looked away, barely grunting a reply. Donny’s mother talked inside, with her back to the window, while the Italian barber glared at the boy over his mother’s shoulder.
“My name’s Mary.” She dipped her head to catch the withdrawn boy’s eyes again.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve seen you.” He shuffled his feet from side to side, kicking at the wet sidewalk with the toes of his sneakers.