man,” Stan adds, taking the cue from Eli that it’s okay to spill. “Slit his damned throat while he was sleeping.”
“She ain’t killed Traynell.” Nigel coughs up a wad of phlegm and spits perilously close to the leftover chili. “I saw him last week down in N’Orleans, creeping round the Superdome flea market, buying scrap metal.”
“Was Marcy with him?”
Nigel shakes his head. “Nope. He was by his own sorry self. And looking it. A man should never live with a woman as long as that man has. Makes him weak. And after that woman leave your ass, you get all skinny and your skin goes saggy and your hair starts falling out.”
“More proof you ain’t never had a woman, you fat, hairy bastard,” Stan says, summoning another circle-wide laugh. Nigel joins in, ruffling his mane of kinky gray hair, sending a few insects jumping for safer ground.
“I wasn’t talking about Traynell or his skinny ass,” Stan continues as the laughter dies down. “I was talking about her old man . Her Daddy.” Stan turns his full attention my way. “I heard she tied him up in his bed and cut his throat, real slow, so he could stay alive to know he’s being kilt as long as possible.”
I nod, and try not to let on that Stan is fuckingwith my head. “I heard she killed two people, but I didn’t know who they were. Or why.”
“One was her daddy because he deserved a killing,” Eli says. “And Marcy was the first of her sisters brave enough to do it. The other was her own baby girl.”
“What?” My stomach twists, sending up a nose-scalding gurgle of whiskey and cheap soda. “That can’t be true. Marcy would never. Never.”
“I lived in Lafayette around the time it happened. Read all the papers.” Eli stretches out his stick legs, wiggling them at the ankles. “They said it was an accident. The little girl was supposed to be at her grandma’s house across the field, but came back looking for her mama in the middle of the night. She must of snuck in the back door just after Marcy rigged the gas stove. Exploded her right up and burned what was left of Marcy’s daddy down to the bone.”
The circle falls silent. Not even Stan or Nigel have any sarcastic commentary to offer. A woman murdering her father and accidentally taking out her baby girl in the process isn’t funny. It’s sad. So, so sad. Marcy was fifteen, trying to escape some kind of abuse, and she ended up killing her own kid. A kid she shouldn’t have even had at that age. If the girl could already walk and open doors on her own, she must have been at least two or three. That meant Marcy was pregnant when she was . . . twelve.
God . I want to go back in time and take care of the terrified kid she must have been. But I can’t. All I cando is try to help her out of whatever trouble she’s in now.
“But she served her time, didn’t she?” I finally ask, my voice thin. “Why is she running now?” I know what Marcy told me—she helped a father kidnap his daughter from her abusive mother—but I want to know what the Kings know. Marcy clearly left out several major details in her version of the story.
Eli shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe those old demons are still hauntin’ her.”
“After forty years?” I lift a brow, letting Eli know I smell bullshit. “All of sudden she has to up and run after being a part of this town for decades? When everyone here thinks she’s a saint?”
“I never thought that woman was a saint.” Nigel grunts and crosses his arms with an arthritic hitch of his shoulder. “She was a tough bitch. That’s what she was.”
Marcy? A tough bitch? Tough, yes. But Marcy has the kindest heart. I’ve never seen her lose her temper, not even when two of my bunkmates at Sweet Haven tried to set each other’s hair on fire during the spring barbecue.
“Marcy wasn’t a bitch. She was a mama bear.” Stan throws his arm around me and leans in to whisper in my ear. I smell rat chili and whiskey with an undernote of
“She ain’t killed Traynell.” Nigel coughs up a wad of phlegm and spits perilously close to the leftover chili. “I saw him last week down in N’Orleans, creeping round the Superdome flea market, buying scrap metal.”
“Was Marcy with him?”
Nigel shakes his head. “Nope. He was by his own sorry self. And looking it. A man should never live with a woman as long as that man has. Makes him weak. And after that woman leave your ass, you get all skinny and your skin goes saggy and your hair starts falling out.”
“More proof you ain’t never had a woman, you fat, hairy bastard,” Stan says, summoning another circle-wide laugh. Nigel joins in, ruffling his mane of kinky gray hair, sending a few insects jumping for safer ground.
“I wasn’t talking about Traynell or his skinny ass,” Stan continues as the laughter dies down. “I was talking about her old man . Her Daddy.” Stan turns his full attention my way. “I heard she tied him up in his bed and cut his throat, real slow, so he could stay alive to know he’s being kilt as long as possible.”
I nod, and try not to let on that Stan is fuckingwith my head. “I heard she killed two people, but I didn’t know who they were. Or why.”
“One was her daddy because he deserved a killing,” Eli says. “And Marcy was the first of her sisters brave enough to do it. The other was her own baby girl.”
“What?” My stomach twists, sending up a nose-scalding gurgle of whiskey and cheap soda. “That can’t be true. Marcy would never. Never.”
“I lived in Lafayette around the time it happened. Read all the papers.” Eli stretches out his stick legs, wiggling them at the ankles. “They said it was an accident. The little girl was supposed to be at her grandma’s house across the field, but came back looking for her mama in the middle of the night. She must of snuck in the back door just after Marcy rigged the gas stove. Exploded her right up and burned what was left of Marcy’s daddy down to the bone.”
The circle falls silent. Not even Stan or Nigel have any sarcastic commentary to offer. A woman murdering her father and accidentally taking out her baby girl in the process isn’t funny. It’s sad. So, so sad. Marcy was fifteen, trying to escape some kind of abuse, and she ended up killing her own kid. A kid she shouldn’t have even had at that age. If the girl could already walk and open doors on her own, she must have been at least two or three. That meant Marcy was pregnant when she was . . . twelve.
God . I want to go back in time and take care of the terrified kid she must have been. But I can’t. All I cando is try to help her out of whatever trouble she’s in now.
“But she served her time, didn’t she?” I finally ask, my voice thin. “Why is she running now?” I know what Marcy told me—she helped a father kidnap his daughter from her abusive mother—but I want to know what the Kings know. Marcy clearly left out several major details in her version of the story.
Eli shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe those old demons are still hauntin’ her.”
“After forty years?” I lift a brow, letting Eli know I smell bullshit. “All of sudden she has to up and run after being a part of this town for decades? When everyone here thinks she’s a saint?”
“I never thought that woman was a saint.” Nigel grunts and crosses his arms with an arthritic hitch of his shoulder. “She was a tough bitch. That’s what she was.”
Marcy? A tough bitch? Tough, yes. But Marcy has the kindest heart. I’ve never seen her lose her temper, not even when two of my bunkmates at Sweet Haven tried to set each other’s hair on fire during the spring barbecue.
“Marcy wasn’t a bitch. She was a mama bear.” Stan throws his arm around me and leans in to whisper in my ear. I smell rat chili and whiskey with an undernote of
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