Ettie had turned back to look for her, limping on tender feet. She met the water before she had gone far, and thereafter ran as desperately, leaving a trail of blood the water soon washed away. Twice she fell, and once crashed straight though a tangle of briars whose thorns did nothing at all to hold back the water behind her.
“Here, Ettie! Over here!”
She looked to her left, and tried to shout Mom. There was precious little breath left for Mom.
“It’s our cabin! Over here!”
It was not. The cabin they had rented had been of logs. This was white clapboard.
“Get in!” Susan was standing in the doorway. (Behind Susan, Ettie glimpsed the flickering television screen.) Ettie stumbled in, and fell.
Susan slammed the door and locked it. “It’ll try to get in under it,” she said, “but we’ll pack it with towels. Clothes. Anything.” She had thrown her suitcase on the bed. She opened it. Ettie raised her head. “I’ve got to wake up, Mom.” “We’ll beat it!” Briefly, Susan bent to kiss her. “We’ve got to!” Then Ettie faded and was gone, and Susan was alone in the clapboard cabin. Water crept past the towels and her terrycloth robe to cover the cabin floor. When the water outside had risen higher than the windowsills, it crept under and around the sashes to dribble on the floor.
Henrietta woke sweating, terrified of something she could not name. Through the closed door, Joan said, “Everything’s ready, Mom. You want to have your Mother’s Day breakfast in bed?”
“No,” Henrietta whispered. More loudly, “No. I don’t want to stay in here. I’ll be out in a minute, Honey.”
There were two robes in her closet, terrycloth and silk. Henrietta put the silk one on over her nightgown and tied its belt with a sudden violence she could not have explained.
The bed was a mess, sheet and blanket twisted and half on the floor. Pausing to straighten it up before she left the bedroom, her eyes caught the dull red of old copper. Once the worn little coin was in her hand, memories came flooding back.
Bacon and waffles, real butter and almost-real maple syrup in the sunshine-yellow breakfast nook, and Joan spraying Pam on the waffle iron. “Coffee’s on the stove,” Joan announced.
Henrietta sat, put the penny on her plate, and stared at it. A minute passed, then two. At last she picked it up and dropped it into a pocket of her robe.
“Do you know,” she told Joan, “I’ve just recalled how your grandmother died, after being wrong about it all these years. She drowned.”
“Sure.” Joan held the steaming coffee pot. She filled Henrietta’s cup. “Fluid in her lungs. Uncle Ed told me.”
Scott Emerson Bull
Mr Sly Stops for a Cup of Joe
Scott Emerson Bull plies his dark trade in the rural charms of Carroll County, Maryland. When he’s not keeping an eye out for ghosts or suspicious-looking types at his local convenience store, he scribbles stories, some of which have appeared in Darkness Rising: Caresses of Nightmare, Outer Darkness, Night to Dawn and chizine.com. He lives with his wife Deb, his two step-kids, a cat and a proud little puppy.
“It amazes me how many people love the character, Mr Sly,” admits Bull. “He’s even getting some fan mail! I mean, he’s not a very nice guy, although he does have a wicked sense of humour.
“I guess we would all like to have his sense of fearlessness, but I doubt we’d want to run into him…”
Mr Sly and fear were old acquaintances, though when they usually met it was at Mr Sly’s invitation and on his terms. He never expected to run into fear at twelve-thirty on a Tuesday night in a Quik-stop convenience store while he chose between the Rich Colombian Blend and the De-Caf Hazel Nut coffees. But then, fear always did have a mind of its own.
A kid had ushered in fear. He did it when he yelled, “Everybody in back. This is a robbery.”
Mr Sly crushed the empty coffee cup in his hand and dropped it to the floor. Dammit, he thought. He knew he should’ve just got what he needed and skipped the coffee. If he had, perhaps he’d have avoided this, but he had to have his fix, didn’t he? Now his work at home would have to wait. He’d have to deal with this first.
“Come on, Fat Man. That means you, too.”
He turned towards the direction of the voice. The first thing he saw was the gun. The kid holding it wasn’t much, just some local Yo-boy wannabe with bleached hair and a bad attitude. The gun, however, was big as a cannon. Mr Sly hated guns. Blam blam blam and all you had left was a big ugly mess. Mr Sly preferred knives. Knives required skill and demanded intimacy. Kind of like fucking without all the post-coital chit-chat.
“As you wish,” he said. “You seem to be in charge.”
The kid pointed him towards an office in the back, where Mr Sly joined the Indian girl who ran the register and a well-dressed woman of about thirty who’d also been buying coffee. He looked for a window or a second door, but there was no other exit. Not good.
“Okay. On the floor!”
Mr Sly turned to the kid. He had to look downward, since he had a good eight inches on the boy.
“Do you want us sitting or face down?” he asked.
“Huh?”
Mr Sly looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes. He didn’t see much sign of intelligence.
“Do you want us to sit on the floor or lie on it face down?”
“Face down,” the kid said.
The two women complied. Mr Sly remained standing.
“Why would you want us to do that?” he asked.
“Because I fucking said so, okay?”
Mr Sly shrugged. “That’s not how I would do it. I’m assuming you plan on shooting us in the back of the head.”
“Maybe,” the kid said. One of the women sobbed.
Mr Sly shook his head. “For what? Maybe a hundred bucks in the register? Where’s the fun in that?” He made a gun with his index and forefinger and aimed it at his own temple. “Don’t you want to see our faces when you pull the trigger?”
The kid’s eyes widened.
“Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“You don’t have a clue, do you?”
“Fuck you, man. On the floor! Now!”
“Okay, but I’m going to do you a favor and stay sitting up. If you shoot me, I want you to see my face.”
“Just fucking sit down.”
Mr Sly did as he was told, keeping his anger in check. At six eight, three hundred and fifty pounds, he could easily crush this punk’s head with his bare hands, but the gun equalized the situation. He lowered his bulk and sat cross-legged on the floor.
“Now don’t move. I’m gonna be right out here. I hear anyone move, you’re all dead, okay?”
Mr Sly nodded.
The kid left the room and started banging on what sounded like the register. The well-dressed woman sat up and turned to Mr Sly.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Mr Sly smiled at her. He could see she was in the first stage of fear, what he liked to call disbelief. That was when your mind still refused to come to grips with what was happening, although your body had accepted it fully. He could see that by the sweat on the woman’s brow and the red splotches on her cheeks. He wondered if she’d wet herself yet. Most of them did and Mr Sly hated that. How could you enjoy the deliciousness of dread with soggy panties?
“I must tell you that I thought you were rather rude a few minutes ago,” he said.
“What?”
Mr Sly didn’t like this woman. He didn’t like her at all.
“I thought you were rather rude when you reached in front of me to get that coffee cup. You could have been more patient.”