Messin' with the Kid
by Roy Dorman
The phone woke Beth just after she had slipped into a deep sleep.
“Hello?” she answered hesitantly.
She and Allan were on a two-week vacation in the Clarksdale,
Mississippi, area. Allan was a musician and was interested in the
little towns in that part of Mississippi that were rich in the history
of the Blues. Actually, he wasn’t a fulltime musician. His
day job as a high school English teacher paid the bills, but on
weekends and vacations, he considered himself a musician. Beth
had been a history major in college, so she was always game for going
places with him that had historical significance.
“Beth, it’s me,” Allan whispered.
“Allan? Where the hell are you? It’s almost midnight,” Beth
said with some alarm in her voice. She was now wide awake and
sitting up in bed. They had eaten dinner at a blues bar; catfish,
hushpuppies, and cold beers, and had stayed to listen to music until
about 10:30. They had come back to their motel room and Allan had
said that he wanted to go out and have a cigarette before bed.
She had fallen asleep and when the phone rang, she had been surprised
that Allan wasn’t in bed with her.
“Beth, you have to come and pick me up. Right now, Beth,” said Allan, still whispering, but now oddly insistent.
“But where are you, Allan? Did you take the car?”
“No, I don’t have the car; I walked. I’m about two miles from
Lucille’s. Just turn left as you leave their parking lot and
drive ‘til you come to the first intersection.”
“Allan, that’s crazy. What are you doing out there?”
“I had some business to take care of; music business.”
“Allan, we don’t know anybody in Clarksdale. Nobody here even knows that you’re a musician.”
“Beth. You have to come get me right now. I’m
serious. I may be in some danger. Please come now and don’t ask
any more questions.”
“Alright, Allan, but I’m really pissed; you have a lot of explaining to
do when I get there,” said Beth. She hung up the phone, threw on
some clothes, and went out into the motel parking lot. Driving
through town toward Lucille’s, she mentally cussed out Allan for being
such a bonehead, but part of her was a little worried. He had
sounded so serious when he had said he could be in danger.
At the first intersection she came to after Lucille’s, she pulled over onto the shoulder and got out of the car.
“Allan,” she called. Nothing. Silence. Not even
crickets or frogs calling to mates. Not even the echo of her
voice. Scary.
“Allan, where are you?” she called again into the darkness. Still
nothing at all. It was very dark here at the crossroads.
She was about two miles from Lucille’s and hadn’t passed any other
businesses or houses on the way. There were no streetlights out
here. She was “out in the country” as they had called it when
they were kids.
“Allan, answer me right now or I’m going back to the motel without you.”
“Allan’s not here,” said a deep voice from behind her and a little to
her left. “He’s in Clarksdale at Lucille’s Blues Bar. He
has a gig.”
The way “gig” had come out sounded like the person behind the voice was amused by the term.
“Look, whoever you are,” Beth said with confidence she didn’t really
feel. “Unless you can tell me where Allan is, you can go to
hell. I’ve had it; I’m outta here.”
“So I ‘can go to hell,’ you say. That’s a very interesting choice of words. Almost poetic in this situation.”
There was that hint of amusement again. Beth slowly turned in a complete circle. She still didn’t see anyone.
“Who are you and where you?” Beth whispered. “What do you mean Allan is at Lucille’s?”
“It’s quite simple. Allan came down to the crossroads and made a
business deal. With me. You’re part of the deal,
Beth. Allan drove a hard bargain, but as is usual in my dealings
with desperate people like Allan, I think I got the better of the deal.”
Beth whimpered when she felt a heavy hand clutch her shoulder from
behind. However, when she whirled around, the surprise was on the
face of her stalker. Beth’s interest in history had caused her to
make a quick stop at the Catholic Church on the way to the
crossroads. In one hand, she held a large crucifix and in the
other a small jar of holy water.
“That stuff only works if you believe, Beth. We both know that you don’t believe.”
“I’m counting on you to be the one doing the believing, asshole,” Beth
said as she threw the holy water in his face and shoved the top three
inches of the crucifix into his throat.
Beth drove back to the motel, packed her things, and was on the road in
less than an hour. After weeks of not hearing from Allan, she put
all of his things in a storage locker. Mutual friends asked her
about him; Beth told them that he had decided to stay in
Clarksdale. When the new school year started in the fall, Allan
was still missing.
When Beth was four, a neighbor boy who was six tricked her into playing
doctor. Later, when Beth found out that she had been taken
advantage of, she was furious. Many times throughout her life
people were surprised at the depth of her reaction when she thought
someone was using her. She didn’t like it at all. Not at
all.
THE END
© 2014 Roy Dorman
Bio:Roy Dorman is
retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and
has been a voracious reader for over 60 years. In retirement, he is now
also a voracious writer and he has had poetry and flash fiction
published recently in a number of online literary sites.
E-mail: Roy Dorman
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