Title of Story: Tocowana
Rating: M
Pairing: Edward
Genre: Drama
Word Count: 3,844 (wordcounttool dot com)
Story Summary: "That's all between the river and me."
Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
The old hinges squawk in complaint as the screen door opens. She is in there somewhere; I catch a whiff of fresh biscuits and lingering smell of fried chicken.
"Ma, where are ya?"
"Back here in the bedroom," she says in a voice so quiet I almost don't hear her.
Walking at a slow pace down the hallway, I look at the old school pictures on the wall, and a sense of nostalgia washes over me. Every few days I try to come over and visit, but I never come back here. Sometimes I stay with her, but my room is in the other direction. Most of the time I only stop off in the kitchen just to check on her or let her feed me. She is always trying to give me food, usually waving something fried or baked in my face. Different day, same complaint: "You're way too skinny. I got to put a little weight on ya if ya ever hope to find ya a woman worth somethin'." I never resist 'cause I can't cook worth a lick.
I snort when I come to the family portrait she had us take together back when she first married my step dad. What a farce.
Daddy died when I was five, and she was quick to find a replacement. No one could ever replace what Daddy was to me, despite the short time I was able to spend with him.
Daddy was always taking me to sporting events, movies, roller skating, or any other thing a five-year-old boy would want to do with his dad. Life came to a screeching halt one day when he was driving back home from work. There was a terrible ice storm that had started before he could get home. Daddy's car skidded off the overpass of the Tocowana River, just two miles from our house.
Now I have Carl. He's a sorry replacement for what I'd lost in the chilled, frozen-over Tocowana River.
Daddy was a planner. So, Carl must have figured Ma was due a large life insurance policy. Plus, everyone knew we Masen's weren't hurtin' for money to begin with; my daddy had been a well-known attorney. Carl had started sniffing around a few months after Daddy died. He wooed and schmoozed Ma, and she fell for his charms hook, line, and sinker.
At first, everything was great. Carl played catch and took me for ice cream. He made Ma believe he was daddy material up until I graduated high school. I reckon more than a decade of playing house wore on poor ole Carl; his true colors showed when I left for college. Carl is a sorry, no good drunk who needed a paycheck and a warm body to stick his pecker in. Esme Masen is his cash cow. So, when his prized heifer doesn't cooperate, he never hesitates to remind her who is the one showing her off.
I could have … should have … gone to Daddy's Alma Mater. I settled for Vanderbilt University instead; it's in the top twenty law schools, but it's not Yale. A degree from Vanderbilt would do and I was never more than a thirty minute drive from the house.
I didn't—don't—trust Carl. Who knows what junk he pulls when I'm not here. Once, I caught him grabbing on Ma, yelling not even inches from her face. Reckon he likes to get handsy when he's had a bit too much to drink, but he won't pull much if he knows I'm nearby.
The bedroom door is ajar, so I walk in. The room is as disheveled as my poor mother. On a normal day she's one of those women without a hair out of place. Ma never lets the old biddies in town see her sweat. She never leaves the house without her face on and hair done; at home, she has always been just as flawless, but without the airs. Now, here she is with the collar loose around her neck, and her hair ruffled. Tear tracks mar the thick coat of makeup she wears but doesn't need. Ma's voice cracks when she tries to speak, but before she can get a word out I hear a motor rev. I snarl as she shoves me in the closet.
"Carl can't see ya. I gotta rid of him," she whisper-yells, pushing me between her dresses and slamming the door in my face.
I breathe in hairspray and White Diamonds, and am wistful until I realize where I am—tangled up in the costumes of the woman she pretends to be. The junk she uses to fit in with the other high-society women who don't know what goes on behind the closed doors of Esme Cullen's white Antebellum home.
Brakes whine while gravel crunches under the tires. I swear his douche mobile audibly groans from his abrupt stop. Leaning my head against the inside of the closet, I listen to his door slam and feet pound on the front porch.
Twenty-five.
The number of staggered steps he takes to get from the front door to their bedroom.
Carl opens the door with such force the closet rattles when the knob strikes the wall. He reeks of Jack, sweat, and smoke ... must be too drunk to notice, or too drunk to care that my truck is in the yard. Even at his worst, if he realized I was here, he'd be on his way back out the door like the coward he truly is.
The yelling starts. Not long after, the springs of their expensive mattress protest their weight. Buttons pop and fabric rips.
Twenty-five.
The number of groans from the springs.
Twenty-five.
What I keep counting to trying to block out what I see and hear through the slats of the closet door.
Twenty-five.
The breaths I take in order to tamp down the rage boiling in the pit of my stomach.
The closet door comes off its hinges as I burst from my hiding spot. Fury bubbles inside of me like I have never felt before. Ma works her facade a little too well. I knew things hadn't been great between them, but everything is much worse than I could ever fathom. I could only assume Carl was acting out physically. That is why I stayed close, just in case. I never had concrete evidence until today. Just because he's married to her, doesn't mean no quit meaning no. Nausea rolls and bile rises in the back of my throat when I take in the scene in front of me. I swallow it back before I actually vomit on Ma's high-dollar Persian rug.
Carl falls to the floor, getting hemmed up in his pants after I pull him off of Ma. He's struggling with his clothes behind me, but right now my mother is my only concern.
My voice has left me, and I am almost unable croak out a whispered, "Ma," before she is silencing me with her fingers against my lips.
"It's okay," she whispers as if lying out loud will make the statement true. Bruises are forming at her neck, and her naked breasts show through torn fabric.
This is anything but okay.
The clanking of Carl's belt buckle pulls my attention from my mother. He leers at the two of us and gives a suggestive wag of his eyebrows before he slips out the door.
Twenty-five steps and Carl is back in his truck, flinging gravel.
I should have killed him right then.
I should have wrung Carl's neck.
Instead, he tried to wring hers.
I all but run out to my old, red rust bucket of a truck. Rowanda, my Ford pickup, is as old as the dirt clinging to her tires. Despite her age, she always gets me where I need to go. This time, I need to go to the Tocowana River. Carl likes to visit the riverside and fish. Fishin' is code for: get drunk as ole Cooter Brown and passing out in the driver's seat of his truck.
Parking beside Carl's truck, I step out on the red clay mud that graces each side of the river.
I stomp his way, hollering, "Carl, don'cha think maybe ya should pick on someone your own size for a change?" The only clue I get he is aware of my presence is him flinching when I slam the truck's door.
He glances over his shoulder at me. "Ya ain't quite my type, pretty boy. Too skinny." He winks at me. "How'd ya enjoy the show?" he says, slurring slightly as he heaves himself out of his lawn chair to toe the water's edge. "Maybe if ya had different plumbing ya could have joined in on our fun." The same fingers that just choked my mother tighten the cap back onto his bottle of whiskey, which he then he slips into his breast pocket. By the time I make my way to him, his shoulders are bobbing from laughter and he loses his footing on the slick, red clay. The chilled Tocowana waters catch him when he lands on his hands and knees.
My vision is white hot as icy water splash my cheek from Carl's fall. Next thing I know, I'm fisting blond hair at his crown and dragging him deeper into the river with his legs flailing behind us.
His head bobs. Once. Twice. The third time I hold him under until he goes limp.
I never gave much thought to how it would feel killing a man. If someone had asked me any other day if would kill someone, I'd say naw. If there were ever a time, though, I would do what needs to be done.
Now was one of those times, I reckon.
I laugh out loud when I pull Carl out of the water to look at him one last time. Even if he were able to stand tall right now I would be a head taller than him. I pull the Jack from Carl's pocket and take a swig. I sloppily wipe off the lip of the bottle and slip it back into the front pocket of his plaid, cutoff shirt, before dropping him back into the water. Sloshing my way to the shore, I try to shake off the water clinging to my ankles and boots. Some might say I'm being reckless, but the moment he laid his hands on my mama, I quit caring.
Rowanda takes me back into town. Rowanda understands me. But like any other woman, she's mouthing her distaste in me. The poor ole broad coughs and sputters the whole drive home. I try to not stress her out too much, so I drive slow. Plus, I like to enjoy the scenery from time to time.
Tocowana is beautiful in the late evening, where the day slowly surrenders to the fight of the night. The sun, she shines, but even she has to rest. Her warm rays are replaced by the glow of a full moon and the chill of a soft breeze. The aroma of fresh cut grass is replaced with the overwhelming scent of wood burning in smokers and bonfires.
When I get back to the house, I greet Ma with a kiss on her cheek. From over her shoulder, she looks at me skeptically and asks where I've been. Ma stops her ministrations at the stove when I pull out a chair, scraping the legs across her pecan floors before I plop down in it. Green eyes to green eyes; the expression on her face tells me she knows I have more information than I'm going to give her. Ma lets her questions go because, honest to goodness, I reckon she doesn't want to learn the truth.
I give her a shrug while playing with my fork and napkin. "What's for supper?"
"You'd think you were raised in a barn, Edward Anthony. Get those muddy boots outta my kitchen. I just mopped." The subject of where I was and what I was doing has officially been dropped.
Later, Ma worries when poor Carl never darkens her doorstep. Usually, he's passed out in his truck at a local bar or at the river, ironically. Ever hopeful, Ma waits for Carl to stagger home. This is the reason I came back after school. I don't want to leave Ma alone, and she doesn't like to be alone. Maybe that is why she settled for Carl, he keeps coming back.
The next morning, Ma is up with the chickens and fussing over breakfast when I hear a heavy knock at the front door. Ma's voice greets the visitor, who she calls "Deputy." Seems the Sheriff's Department may have sent someone to inform Ma of Carl's death. Carl, the poor schmuck, ain't coming home.
There is no way I'm missing this.
Clamoring out my bedroom while yanking sweats up my legs, I stumble into what has to be the prettiest thing I have ever seen wearing black and brown polyester.
Who the Sheriff sends on this errand is the devil incarnate. This woman is killing me. Her dark brown hair is piled on her head like an angelic milk maid. She has worried those pouty lips of hers to death with her teeth. The only worrying I want her doing is worrying about when she is going to kiss me. Let's not forget her huge, brown, Anime eyes framed with eyelashes that graze her eyebrows.
The young lady looks surprised to see me, but I reckon it's because I almost plowed her over in my haste to receive the good news. Doesn't help that I'm grinning like a dang fool even as "Carlisle Cullen is dead" spills from her pretty lips. She looks displeased. Reckon I should be taking the news of my step dad dying harder than I am, but she is so dag burn pretty my heart hurts.
Ma offers the deputy sweet tea and a spot on the couch like any good Southern hostess would. Short and beautiful denies the sweet tea, but does make herself as relaxed as she can in those uncomfortable looking pants.
"At about seven o'clock this morning, I was making my patrols when I saw something suspicious in the Tocowana River." The deputy swipes her palms on her knees, which draws my attention to her hands. She ain't wearing a wedding ring. There ain't even a tan line or an indention evident on that finger. "I'll save you the gory details, Mrs. Cullen, but I found Mr. Cullen face first in the water on the riverbank."
Ma gasps, and I catch a good look at her. She has on a turtleneck and enough makeup to ice a cake.
I wonder if Carl's face was fish food. I snort out a laugh—probably not the best idea I've had to date. The beauty with the Tootsie Roll-colored eyes snaps them my way, giving me a hard stare. I ain't even gonna lie, I want chocolate now.
Getting caught's not one of my main concerns. I've seen these cases before. A family member wants to call foul play when a loved one, drunk as a skunk, gets too close to the river. Not much can be done when the river washes away most, if not all, evidence. All the evidence needed to rule the death as an accidental drowning is a simple blood draw.
"Mr. Cullen's blood alcohol content was a point nineteen. The Department is assuming he fell into the river and drowned," she states, her eyes never leave mine. Ma is reduced to tears, and I can tell crying is something the deputy doesn't handle well. She pats her shapely thighs then heaves herself up, wobbling, and I wonder if she is as affected by me as I am her.
Nodding to Ma she says, "Well, Mrs. Cullen, I hate to come bearing bad news and leave, but I need to get going. If I can do anything for you at all, don't hesitate to ask."
Ma responds by choking out, "Thank you for coming by, Deputy Swan. I wish we'd met under better circumstances." Ma has had way more than she can stand—she turns to go to her room down the hall.
Deputy Swan turns and walks toward her cruiser. I follow her 'cause I can't let her get too far too fast without speaking to her on a personal level. The screen door slams and she startles like a newborn foal. She turns to face me so fast she has to spit hair out of her face. I can't help but laugh a little. She's so small my chest receives most of her glares. "Mr. Cullen, your dad died last night. You might want to have a tad bit more sympathy."
A gust of air parts my lips, making a pfft sound. "First off, sugar, I'm a Masen, not a Cullen." I hold up one finger. "I don't share a lick of DNA with that trash, and wouldn't have taken his name even if my real daddy was a piece of crap." I step a little closer and hold up another finger. "Second, I never caught your first name, Deputy Swan." She's so close I can touch her. Hair has fallen out of the intricate braid that's piled on her head ... I wonder if it's is as soft as it looks. So I grab a lock of her homespun chocolate and tug a little before tucking the strands behind her ear—newborn baby fuzz ain't as soft. My fingers graze the back of the two gold studs in her left ear, they catch the morning light. She has an extra stud in the tippy top shell of her ear, too. Mesmerized, I trace my finger up to the small diamond. Never seen something like that before—I like the extra piercing. Just that small piece of jewelry leaves me wondering if there's anymore hidden beneath her uniform.
Before I can get too lost in my thoughts, she slaps my hand away and huffs. "Well, Mr. Masen, doesn't matter if we get to know each other on a first-name basis. All you will be is a number if I can link you to Carlisle Cullen's death. The Department says Mr. Cullen's death was an accident. His blood alcohol content was through the roof, and all the evidence looks like he fell in the river and drowned. An accident is what they say, but after today I don't feel like that's really what happened." She pauses to catch her breath, and a blush sprouts up from the neckline of her black button-up. "I come in, and you appear all too happy to find out your step dad has died," she says, jabbing two little, bony fingers into my sternum while she continues to flail about, ranting and raving. She takes those same two fingers and points them at the house. Can't help but notice her gesture is like a gun. "Also, red clay is on the boots by the door that look a little too big for the late Mr. Cullen's feet." Her penetrating gaze starts at the top of my copper-colored hair and lands on my bare toes wiggling in Ma's freshly trimmed Bermuda grass. Then, she turns to her attention to Rowanda and stalks towards my beloved truck. "The same red clay is on the rusted, red heap of truck in the front yard." I gasp because I can't believe she's dragging Rowanda into this. She starts to saunter my way. Devil hips swing while her cuffs clap an ovation. She whispers, "Plus, I can't neglect the red clay under your nails, too. The Department might have called Mr. Cullen's death an accident, but I detect a skunk."
When she finishes her little rant, trying to get in my face as best as someone her height can, her finger jabs me through my thin white tee again.
Raising one arm, then the other, I smell each of my armpits and smirk at her. "It ain't me that you smell, sugar."
Tootsie, on the other hand, smells like honeysuckle, and I wonder if she tastes like it, too. I put the brakes on that particular train of thought before it ever leaves the station and gets me into even bigger trouble.
Guess I seem dense because she huffs and clomps off back to her cruiser in those fugly mandatory boots. The boots might be fugly as all get out, but I wouldn't mind unlacing them to find her—what I'm sure would be—dainty toes. Instead, she flings her body into the cruiser, huffing and puffing so much I expect her to blow down Ma's house. She cranks the engine, and music comes blaring out of the stereo.
"I might have had a plan, but he didn't know it.
I might have been scared, but I didn't show it.
That's all between the river and me.
With the current and the rocks it could have been risky.
He might have been sober, but I brought the whiskey.
That's all between the river and me."
Uncontrollable laughter has me bent over, half wheezing at the irony of the moment—of all the songs in the world to come out of the deputy's speakers.
Somehow, I compose myself a little. I know I'm not making myself any less obvious about what really happened to Carl. I can't help myself, though. These past two days have been the strangest ones of my life, and the little devil parked in my mom's front yard is just a fraction of my problems.
For me to be attracted to a deputy ain't a huge problem. The problem is: the same deputy thinks I'm guilty of murder. She ain't wrong in her assumptions, I'm guiltier than a fox with a mouth full of feathers, but that's beside the point.
Leaning down into the open window on folded arms, I smile at her. She's breathing a little heavy. "I don't know what ya presume happened to Carl, Tootsie, but you're wrong. Carl was a mean ole drunk who got too close to the water. Might not want to start playing blame games if ya can't come up with proof. A sweet little thing like you could only embarrass herself and make things worse without the evidence." I tap my finger on the small dimple I just noticed in her chin.
The devil whoops her siren at me, so I jump back with my hands up, still smiling.
"Mr. Masen, I may not have concrete evidence, yet, but I will do everything in my power to get it." She shifts her car into drive and gravel crunches below her tires as she lets off the brake slightly. Leaning out her window a little, her eyes never leaving mine. "Might want to be a little more careful, Masen. I'm watching you."
This thought makes me flat out giddy, and I decide there ain't much I wouldn't do to draw her attention.
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