Deadly Southern Charm

I thought for a long time about my options. The idea of making nice with Scraper turned my stomach, but in the end, I knew the only way I was going to get what I needed was to make peace. Even if Dallas sold me his property, the zoning would still be a problem if Scraper wanted it to be. Scraper had to think I was giving up the fight, and nothing would make him happier than thinking he’d finally beaten me. And I knew the perfect thing to take him as a peace offering.

Dallas did what he said he’d do and dug a hole for the carcasses. I went out that evening and threw the stinking animals into it, except for one opossum. I took the opossum to my kitchen and took a set of piecrusts out to thaw, until I remembered that everybody knows shepherd’s pies are my go-to food gift. I put the crusts back and made a stew instead, heavy on the beans and spices the way Scraper liked. I added chunks of the ’possum at the tail end of the cooking process, for the gamey flavor he liked. Who’s to say if they cooked all the way through or not?

The next evening, I put the stew in a disposable container, wiped it down, put it in a gift bag, and drove up to Scraper’s. The catapult was still in the yard, aimed at my house.

“Well, well, well,” Scraper said when he answered my knock. “If it ain’t Mrs. Robinson. To what do I owe this honor?” I ignored the sarcasm and braced myself for what I was about to say, hoping I wouldn’t actually choke on the words.

“Scraper, I think we need to call a truce,” I said quietly. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. I shifted my feet and looked at the floor like I practiced. “Look, I handled things badly when we were married, and God knows I’m still doing it. You bring out the absolute worst in me, but this isn’t how I want to live.”

“You call that an apology?” he asked. He started to close the door, but I stuck my arm out.

I felt my face get red, but I took a deep breath and pushed against the door with my free hand, so he couldn’t close it. “Scraper, wait!”

I made my voice hitch just a little, like I was about to cry. “Tom Slaughter was a mistake, and I know I’ve only made it worse by parading my… friends in front of you. You don’t deserve that.” I looked down, hoping I looked sorry. When I looked back up, I had managed to wet my eyes just a little. Scraper stared at me silently for a full ten seconds, then reached out and took the stew. “What is it?” he asked.

“It’s stew. I was going to make a pie like old times, but I didn’t have any crusts.”

I swear the man smiled just a bit. “Well, it ain’t pie, but you know I like your cooking.” He stretched out a hand. “Truce?”

I grabbed it and shook it. “Truce.”

They found Scraper a few days later, sprawled in his bed, vomit all over everything. There was an empty, disposable container in the trash and a dirty bowl in the sink. I didn’t hear about it until Frances Townsend, fresh from Sheriff Tate’s office where she worked part-time, came into my office and said, “Oh Stella, I am so sorry to hear about Scraper.”

“What do you mean?” I asked innocently, coming around my desk.

She laid a soft, plump hand on my shoulder. “Oh, honey, they haven’t told you yet?” I shook my head. “Scraper passed away a couple of days ago.”

I sat back in my chair and stared. I opened my mouth and closed it a couple of times to make sure she knew I was shocked.

“What do you mean?”

Frances nodded sympathetically, but I knew she was relishing every detail and would spread it around town faster than green grass through a goose. “It’s such a shock, I know. Apparently, it was food poisoning.” She gave me the details of what they found, while I continued to look shocked.

“That poor man,” I said. “Bless his heart, when we were married he was always trying to get me to cook up some poor animal he’d scraped off the road, saying it was still good. Of course, I flat out refused. Everybody knows it isn’t safe.” I wiped an imaginary tear from my eyes.

“Oh, Stella, I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything?”

I shook my head. “I just need to be alone for a while, I think, Frances.”

“Of course, sugar. You just call me when you’re ready to hear the details for the service.”

Frances gave me an awkward hug and left the office. I looked down at the aerial plans for the new community and smiled.

SHADOW MAN, by Brad Harper

“Tell me a story, Grandma. I’d like one with a witch in it this time.”

Seven-year-old Tommy was bargaining with his Grandmother Buford, trying his best to hold off his bedtime. There was a monster under his bed, he was sure of it. Sometimes in the middle of the night he heard a noise like little claws scrabbling on the smooth floor. Once when half-awake, he thought he saw a claw peek out as he leaned over, but whatever it was jerked back into darkness when he gasped.

So he decided the later he went to bed, the faster he would go to sleep and the less time for the monster to get him. It was well known that monsters that live in closets and beneath beds only feed on those awake. He also hoped that a good story from his grandmother would help him escape into dreamland as soon as his head hit the pillow.

“What story would that be?” asked Grandma in her creaking rocking chair, her faded black shawl around her shoulders, her wrinkled face pink and shiny by the fire. “How about Hansel and Gretel? That has a witch in it.”

Tommy pouted, his lower lip protruding into what Grandma Buford called his Liverwurst Lip. “That’s a children’s story, Grandma! I’m too old for that. Tell me a real story.”

Grandma spread her hands in mock surrender. “All right, Big Boy, a real story it is, but be careful what you wish for! Now go dress for bed, and I’ll tell you a true story about a robber who stole too much. It’s a family legend, and part of it happened in this very house, so I reckon it’s time you heard it.”

“In this house?” He asked, his mouth open, his lip returned to its normal size. “Is there a witch in it?”

“Oh yes, dear. A witch, a robber, magical potions, demons, and your great-great-grandfather. Now get ready, young man, before I change my mind!”

Tommy hurried up the stairs to his room, careful not to spill any wax from his candle on the carpeted staircase, and soon he was back, dressed in his red flannel nightshirt and thick woolen socks, his blue eyes shining with excitement. “I’m ready, Grandma! Now start, please?”

Grandma smiled at his sudden outburst of good behavior as she poured herself a glass of elderberry wine from the dusty crystal decanter. For her rheumatism, of course. She pondered how to begin as she studied the firelight darting through the dark liquid in her glass. “Long ago in the bayou there lived a highwayman…”

“A robber, Grandma, you said a robber!” Tommy said, his lower lip peeking out once more.

“Yes, Tommy, a highwayman is a kind of robber, one who steals from travelers using his sword and pistol to make them give up their money or anything else of value when he stops them on the road. Now, be quiet and listen, or I’ll stop right here.”

Little Tommy tucked his feet under him and held his knees tight, his eyes wide open as his grandmother told her tale, the low fire casting her face in alternating shadow and light. Soon her soft voice carried him to a time before even this ancient storyteller was born.

“This highwayman was a very greedy man who took from everyone he caught. Others would not rob widows or poor people, but this man would take the last penny from a starving child. He was hated for he was cruel, but feared even more, because he was very cruel.”

“How was he cruel, Grandma?”

“He once robbed a poor box in a church, which was bad enough, but when the priest caught him, he cut off the priest’s nose before he ran away laughing. No one dared follow him into the night, and he got away scot-free.”

“Nobody tried to catch him, ever?”

“Now don’t rush me Tommy, I’m getting to that, but no one did for a very long time even though there was a large bounty on his head.”

“What’

s a bounty?”

“A reward for his capture. Old Man Buford, your great-great-grandfather, put it there after he was robbed at sword point. The robber was so feared no one even spoke his name, so he was called the Shadow Man, for he was never seen in daylight.”

“Shadow Man,” Tommy whispered and shivered by the fire, hugging his knees tighter.

“That’s right, Shadow Man. He was always dressed in black, rode on a swift, black horse, and no one ever saw him coming. He was so feared that when he yelled out ‘Stand and deliver!’ his victims never dared fight back, not even full-grown men, and they all gave him their money straightaway.”

When Grandma said “stand and deliver,” Tommy imagined the Shadow Man standing before him on a dark road, the blade of his sword glimmering beneath a pale moon, inches from Tommy’s own face. He wiggled in delight, and his heart beat faster. “So who did fight back? The sheriff? Did he form a posse?”