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  DON'T GET MAD, GET EVEN

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2013 by Barb Goffman.

  All rights reserved.

  *

  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 college this fall and living at home instead of attending a better school across state. But I’d been thrilled.

  “Would you get the other shovel and help me rebury Daddy before anyone notices? We’ve got another hour or so before sun-up.”

  He reached out and gently stroked my arm. My arm, with the little round burn marks. Mama had said they came from a kitchen accident when I was real young. But she never explained the ones on my stomach and thighs.

  Quickly Brady grabbed the other shovel and together we reburied the dragon. I was glad that this time, I got to do it myself instead of watching him and Mama from my bedroom window.

  But…

  “Brady,” I said, as we were almost finished, “I don’t remember Daddy smoking a pipe. Just cigarettes.”

  “He didn’t. The guy who started sniffing around Mama after Daddy…left did. I told her this family would never need any man other than me.”

  Brady paused and stared at me hard with an odd kind of smile. The hair on my neck rose.

  “You’ll never need anyone other than me. Will you, Mary Ellen?”

 

  Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, hearing voices in my head. Characters fully developed, telling me their story. On good nights, I get up, grab a pen and paper, and write down what they say. That is how “Nightmare” was born. The thunderstorm. The swing. The cigarette. The southern-gothic feel. It all poured out of me in the middle of the night, a gift from my muse, and now my gift to you. “Nightmare” is the first of five new stories in this collection. I hope you enjoy all the tales in this book as much as I’ve loved writing them.

  BON APPÉTIT

  Another gust of wind rattled the window frames. I shivered as Jenny pulled the photo album closer and pointed at a wedding snapshot of Dwayne, Larry, and me. Dwayne didn’t have any of the stubble or anger that usually graced his face these days. Grinning widely, like a kid who’d gotten two desserts, he stood in his rented tux with one arm around my bare, freckled shoulders and the other around my brother, Larry’s, broad ones. It was a fitting pose, considering how Dwayne ultimately came between Larry and me. I hadn’t seen my brother in twenty years.

  “Look how skinny you were.” Jenny brushed her curly brown hair from her eyes.

  I shifted my chair closer to my scarred kitchen table and laughed. “Yep. Those were the days.” Back before Dwayne began hitting me. Before I told Larry about it. Before he nearly beat Dwayne to death and went to prison for it. Hard time up at Macon. Dwayne wouldn’t let me visit him. Ever. At least Larry and I wrote letters, and sometimes he called.

  Jenny leaned back, trying to smile, but the corners of her mouth kept tugging down. “I love you, you know.”

  My eyes watered. “I love you, too.”

  Jenny had been my best friend ever since Dwayne and I moved here to Willacoochee. She lived on a small farm a mile up the road with her husband, four children, and two hound dogs. Nearly every day we were in and out of each other’s kitchens, sharing flour and vegetables and smiles. If I was going to miss anyone, it would be Jenny, though I guess once you’re dead, you can’t miss anyone or anything.

  I stood and picked up a ceramic plate off the counter. It had sunflowers on it—Mama’s favorite—just like the ones I grew in my garden. I’d made the plate for Mama for her birthday next month, but that day was never going to come now. “I want you to have this.” I held the plate out to Jenny. “I know how much you like it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. Besides Mama, you’re the only one who ever supported my crafts.”

  Jenny sniffed as she ran her fingers over the sunflowers, their warmth and brightness a sad reminder of better days. “Dwayne’s a fool, you know.”

  Oh, I knew. Early in my marriage, I’d dreamed of opening my own shop and selling my work, but Dwayne had made it clear that was never going to happen. Running a store was too costly, he’d said. Too risky. “You don’t have it in you to make a store succeed, Violet. Now focus on what you’re good at and make me a pie.”

  “Have you been able to reach your mother?” Jenny asked, bringing me back to the present.

  “I finally got through to Aunt Sarah’s this morning. It’s been so hard with the phone lines being jammed all the time. I’ve only received one call all week.” I leaned against the counter and sighed, grateful that Aunt Sarah had taken Mama in when she got sick, after Dwayne refused to let her live with us. “Mama’s Alzheimer’s has gotten worse. She didn’t even recognize my voice.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so glad I got to see my whole family last week. It makes all this easier.”

  Her voice started to break. I hugged her.

  “Well, at least you won’t have to worry about cooking any more big Thanksgiving meals,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. But it didn’t work. It’s hard to joke when an enormous comet is set to hit the earth in a few hours, ending all life. That’s how they phrased it on the news last night. Ending all life.

  I pulled away and turned on the lights, thankful once again for our generator. It had been getting darker all day. The shadows stretching across the floor made it look more like late evening than mid-afternoon.

  Jenny wiped unshed tears from her eyes. “What are you making for your last meal?”

  “Steaks. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion. I guess the end of the world qualifies.” I swallowed hard. “And I’m making mashed potatoes with lots of butter, just like Mama used to. Everyone’s always loved them.”

  “Especially me.” Jenny patted her stomach. “Well, I guess I better get home. The kids want their favorite oatmeal cookies, and they’re not going to bake themselves. Thanks for giving me the last of your brown sugar.”

  “Sure. It’s not like I’ll need it anymore.”

  Jenny and I had been sharing more and more food these last few weeks, ever since the government confirmed what the scientists had been saying for months and most of the stores had been picked clean and shut down. It made sense. Who’d want to spend their last days selling stuff when they could be with their families?

  Jenny stepped toward the back door.

  “Wait.” I grabbed one of three pies I had cooling by the sink. “Take this. I made it for you from the last of my pickings.”

  “Blueberry. How can I resist?” Jenny lowered her nose to the lattice crust and breathed in. “Mmmm. I’m sure it will be delicious. You should have opened that bakery like we always talked about.”

  That had been another dream of mine. But Dwayne had reminded me I didn’t have that in me either. Too much work, he’d said, for a woman who flits around the garden all day.

  I hugged my best friend hard, and then, with a smile and a wave, she was gone.

  I took a deep breath and checked my watch. Dwayne would be home soon enough, I realized. I’d best start preparing dinner. I turned on the TV for company. Most of the channels had gone dark weeks ago, but CNN was still running with a limited staff of die-hards who said they’d report to the bitter end.

  “More and more people keep coming here to Central Park, joining the thousands who’ve been camping and singing songs,” a reporter stationed in New York City said. “It’s a lot different from the reports we’ve been hearing out of Seattle and L.A., where the riots are ongoing.”

  The camera switched back to the blond anchor. “Thanks for that report, Mark. In other news, a warden in Oregon released his prisoners this morning after ninety-nine percent of state employees, including prison guards, failed to report to work, leaving the prisons with no way to supervise or provide food to the inmates. This is the third such report we’ve had this week, following releases in Georgia and West Virginia. All three wardens said it would be inhumane to house prisoners under such conditions.”

  Outside, the shutters started slapping against the house, and the w
ind began to whistle. They’d said the weather would continue to worsen as the end grew near. I pushed aside the white curtains covering the window over the sink. The sky was growing darker still. I fretted for a few seconds, then pulled myself together. This was no time to go to pieces. I had work to do.

  * * * *

  A couple hours later the vegetables were picked, washed, and chopped, the potatoes were peeled, and the steaks were tenderized and ready to go. I stood at the window, glancing at the road as I finished making a cucumber salad using the last of my crop. Then, behind me, I heard the back screen door bang against the frame. My breath caught.

  “That’s what I like to see.” Dwayne’s words ran into one another. “My little woman cooking for me, even today.”

  I sighed, my shoulders slumping. He must have stumbled in from over the hill out back. I began turning, but Dwayne crossed the room quicker than I expected and squeezed me from behind, rubbing his hands over my chest, and grinding his pelvis into the back of my dress.

  “You smell nice,” he said.

  “And you smell like a brewery.” I wrenched away from him and turned. “You said you were going to spend today fishing. Looks like you spent it at Gus’s instead.”

  Dwayne’s brown eyes narrowed. I shouldn’t have said that, especially not with that tone. Complaints like that usually pissed Dwayne off and made him come after me. But I couldn’t help myself. This was going to be our last night together, yet he came home with the lingering stench of that swill Gus brewed. Did Dwayne actually think I’d want to spend my last hours on this earth having sex with him when he smelled like he’d fallen into a vat of rancid beer? Oh, who was I kidding? Dwayne never cared what I wanted.

  “Why’s everything always a fight with you?”

  He grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the bedroom. I was thankful it would be the last time I’d have to put up with him. I just hoped he’d be quick as always.