She brought the pan down on his head with a hard crack, so he died trying to steal her onions. “You ass-hole” the old lady mumbled, going off to leave nature a couple days corruption before she’d cover him up humbled.
He’d held a gun to her head, not two minutes earlier. “Fucking ass-hole!” she barked from time to time. Her bonnet had loose daisies which shook as lips quivered, “Sam Wal-Mart started out selling panties you fucking fat dumb-ass-hole” _she said looking down the body, spat, then turned her gaze to the heavens. She hated profiting, yet placed his billfold in her left breast pocket unashamed.
With skillet on the fire and coffee percolating, she growled, “Want ‘em scrambled or what? Well?” The wallet lay on the table. His picture, propped up, gazed vacant out over green linoleum. “Over easy I’d 'spect, but this flame will burn ‘em up for sure.” Grease popped hot. Smoke rose up darkening from the skillet. “I guess it'd not matter much now, mean, with what you being dead and all…” grunting she wrenched at her apron.
The crows ate a day or so more than they should have. She just couldn’t muster to lift out of bed other than to turn the radio on at one minute till six, then off again an hour later; the ‘Flock of Jesus’ broadcast spread comfort to remote souls. Finally needing to go out to pick the tomatoes, she remembered his breath against her neck when he raped her.
“Bang” the screen door echoed. Gathering herself up, she rose aided by the oven door handle. With black cast collected quickly, she followed the retreating figure. Bent over in her garden he’d stopped to gather onions. Dirt clung to their roots. Not hearing the pop of his own skull, he wilted and dropped.
Six o’clock, a voice drifts through the filtered dust, Southern and thick: “The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous sheweth mercy, and giveth.” Mingled within a dulling din of crickets and frogs the preacher railed on, numbly heard through the hot stagnant Texas evening.
Gray hair struggling to stay pinned, she grumbled to herself absently, “Ass-hole.” Picking up the shovel she kicked, starting a hole. A drop of rain hit the dust, puffed and popped larger than life, followed closely by another and another. By the time she reached the porch the torrent pressed down. Again, he became something forgotten; a pile of fall leaves left uncollected, wind tossed, scattered. Looking out from under the awning she paused and grunted. Lightening flashed, its rumble left for later. Again to her bed, she left the festering corpse to be washed of flies and maggots.
Rain fell for two days, and the sun baked mud to clay for another three. All told, it had been over a week since the knock had come to her door. Fretting with her day hat, she gazed vacantly from the window out over the yard, past the garden and to the black lump lying there.
He came, he said, inquiring about the land and the possibility of purchasing it for an unspecified good sum. Once inside however, the talk of cash petered out into an evil silence.
He’d held a gun to her head, not two minutes earlier. “Fucking ass-hole!” she barked from time to time. Her bonnet had loose daisies which shook as lips quivered, “Sam Wal-Mart started out selling panties you fucking fat dumb-ass-hole” _she said looking down the body, spat, then turned her gaze to the heavens. She hated profiting, yet placed his billfold in her left breast pocket unashamed.
With skillet on the fire and coffee percolating, she growled, “Want ‘em scrambled or what? Well?” The wallet lay on the table. His picture, propped up, gazed vacant out over green linoleum. “Over easy I’d 'spect, but this flame will burn ‘em up for sure.” Grease popped hot. Smoke rose up darkening from the skillet. “I guess it'd not matter much now, mean, with what you being dead and all…” grunting she wrenched at her apron.
The crows ate a day or so more than they should have. She just couldn’t muster to lift out of bed other than to turn the radio on at one minute till six, then off again an hour later; the ‘Flock of Jesus’ broadcast spread comfort to remote souls. Finally needing to go out to pick the tomatoes, she remembered his breath against her neck when he raped her.
“Bang” the screen door echoed. Gathering herself up, she rose aided by the oven door handle. With black cast collected quickly, she followed the retreating figure. Bent over in her garden he’d stopped to gather onions. Dirt clung to their roots. Not hearing the pop of his own skull, he wilted and dropped.
Six o’clock, a voice drifts through the filtered dust, Southern and thick: “The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous sheweth mercy, and giveth.” Mingled within a dulling din of crickets and frogs the preacher railed on, numbly heard through the hot stagnant Texas evening.
Gray hair struggling to stay pinned, she grumbled to herself absently, “Ass-hole.” Picking up the shovel she kicked, starting a hole. A drop of rain hit the dust, puffed and popped larger than life, followed closely by another and another. By the time she reached the porch the torrent pressed down. Again, he became something forgotten; a pile of fall leaves left uncollected, wind tossed, scattered. Looking out from under the awning she paused and grunted. Lightening flashed, its rumble left for later. Again to her bed, she left the festering corpse to be washed of flies and maggots.
Rain fell for two days, and the sun baked mud to clay for another three. All told, it had been over a week since the knock had come to her door. Fretting with her day hat, she gazed vacantly from the window out over the yard, past the garden and to the black lump lying there.
He came, he said, inquiring about the land and the possibility of purchasing it for an unspecified good sum. Once inside however, the talk of cash petered out into an evil silence.
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