The Drought Read online

  THE DROUGHT

  PATRICIA FULTON

  Copyright © 2010 Patricia Fulton

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locals, persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover Design by Extended Imagery

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying recording, or by and inform storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1468074806

  ISBN-13: 978-1468074802

  DEDICATION

  This book is for Jimmy Fulton.

  None of this would be possible without you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you Jimmy for reading the same pages over and over again until I finally believed your insights were correct. There were a whole host of people out on authonomy.com that gave great feedback. Thank you Lisa Jackson, Julie Fulton and Leigh Merlo for your enthusiasm. You made me believe in the story again and gave me the energy to do another round of revisions. Ditto to Ali McDonald at the Rights Factory in Toronto. A special thanks to Joe and Dawn Nassise for reading and editing the first draft. It’s come a long way from there.

  Lastly, for Mom—you took us to horror movies when you were too afraid to go alone, you weaned me on King and Koontz, and populated my world with people ripe with fictional potential. You should have been here for this.

  Chapter One

  Junction, Texas

  In the spring, while Junction watched the skies for rain, something else blew in on the wind. Coming from the Gulf, the wind should have arrived with moisture and the promise of rain. But somewhere over Louisiana the hands of God reached up and wrung it out like an old, used-up wash cloth, leaving it bone-dry. This wind, dry as a smoker’s cough, whistled into South Texas, winding its way through gnarled mesquite trees, whispering through the grasses and stirring up the dust and long forgotten memories of the drought of 1950.

  A year passed without rain. Twelve long months faded away, each season passing into the next without any distinction. The grazing fields dried out, the earth began to crumble and a fine coat of dust settled over everything. The temperature began to rise and an unrelenting heat settled over the town. The heat became erosive, licking away at the cool milky waters of the Llano River until an old drainage pipe burrowed deep inside a limestone bluff near Flatrock Bridge was revealed.

  The changes that were visible were disturbing, but the more dangerous changes, the ones that would wreak havoc on the little town of Junction in the coming months, were still invisible to the eye.

  *

  One morning, without a word of warning, Hugh McManus took his shotgun out to the grazing field and shot the better part of a fine herd before turning the gun on himself. Nearing eighty-six, he held the distinct honor of being one of the few ranchers who had survived the five-year drought of the fifties, and knew what he was seeing.

  His daughter, Maple, gave a beautiful eulogy, telling a poignant story about her childhood and how she used brown crayon to color in the grass on the pictures she drew. A drought survivor herself, she had no memory of the color green until she was eleven years old. She reflected back on Hugh’s strength during the first drought, summarizing her speech and Hugh’s life, with the words, “Sometimes a man just knows when enough is enough.”

  The other ranchers, who understood a hard life and playing whatever cards the South Texas skies dealt, received her words with nods of agreement. Their solemn faces were as dark as the land they worked and crisscrossed with grooves that resembled sun-baked mud.

  As the mourners made their departure, their cars trailing slowly up 20th Street, a dry wind gusted up out of the east, pulling restlessly at the mound of dirt waiting to fill the latest gaping hole in the Junction cemetery. The dirt, an unseen observer, floated on the wind. It followed the ragtag parade of cars, bearing witness to the near collision at 20th and Redbud, when Tad Redman’s Silverado nearly plowed over Barry Tanner who was riding his bike across town.

  It shifted on the wind as Barry, uncaring of the squealing tires and blaring horns, zipped through the intersection and across old man Green’s backyard, coming out on lower Cedar Street.

  Barry stood up, coasting over the curb and onto Cedar Street. Old man Green made it out his back door and yelled. “Stay off my lawn, Tanner!”

  Unable to resist a good taunt, Barry yelled back. “It’s all dead anyway!” And it was. The lawns lining the streets were all brown. Junction, under a tight water ban, had withered.

  His words were still floating on the dry air, his pedals in mid-rotation when the first sharp pain sliced through the right lobe of his brain. He landed on the seat of his bike with a grunt and felt his left eye spasm. The sharp ache throbbed there for a moment then disappeared as quickly as it had come. Sweat ran down his neck in soft rivulets, evaporating in the hot sun as it rolled across his naked back. Seventeenth Street was a blur, an automatic right turn on a path he could ride with his eyes closed.

  He pedaled faster, his thoughts on the prize in his pocket and the price he would pay if he were caught. One hand left the handlebars and came to rest on the baseball resting in the pocket of his swim trunks. A small smile touched his lips and a look that could have been elation swept across his face. His body, rebuking him for the abuse on this hot day, sent out another warning.

  A hot blade of pain bore tip-down into precious gray matter. Instead of cutting all the way through, the pain stopped behind his right eye and wedged itself deep behind the socket. His left eye twitched again.

  He thought of his father’s prized collection, guarded, locked-up and under camera surveillance, safe against any intruder in the world, but not against his own son. A sneer swept across his face transforming the boyish good looks into a cynical mask. This latest indiscretion would probably earn him the beating of a lifetime, but the expression on his dad’s face when he saw the empty case would be worth a few bruises. Ignoring the increasing pressure in his head, he pedaled on, his hot breath coming back against his own face.

  *

  A few minutes later the dry gust of wind hit the side of a trailer home on 15th Street, causing the vent over the stove to flap crazily. On a windy day the rattling vent could drive a person crazy. Jared Riley (called Jar by everyone in town except his own mother) looked up in annoyance. He thought, damn vent, and held his thumb over the volume button on the TV remote as if he had every intention of cranking it up, when in truth he wouldn’t dare, not while his mom was sleeping down the hall.

  He moved his thumb and flipped through the meager selection of channels, groaning audibly at his choices of Judge Judy, Hollywood Squares and the syndicated reruns of Jerry Springer. The rest of the channels were fuzzy. They didn’t have cable. Abandoning his hunt he stretched out on the floor and stared at the ceiling. The cool air from the air-conditioner ran over his body. Footsteps on the deck outside made the floor vibrate. He had a visitor.

  Jar cracked open the door to a blast of hot air. Barry, his best friend, stood outside. He was wearing swim trunks and had a towel hanging around his tan shoulders. Squinting against the bright sunlight, Jar asked the obvious. “Hey man, you going swimming?”

  “No dickwad, I came all this way to look at your hairless chest.”

  Self-consciously Jar rubbed his hand across his chest, and slid the door wider. “Hurry up. My mom will kill me if she sees this door open.” Barry sauntered past, and Jar got a good look at the hair starting to grow on his chest.


  “Give me a minute. I’ll go change.” On the way to his room Jar paused in front of his mother’s door but didn’t knock. He could hear her even breathing through the thinness of the door and he didn’t want to wake her. She’d been complaining about headaches for almost a month. When she wasn’t working down at the diner, she came home and slept.

  His room didn’t have a real door, just a brown blanket his mom had hung a few months earlier when he turned twelve. He ducked under the blanket. Clothing littered the floor. He found his swim trunks and grabbed a wadded towel from the corner. He gave it a sniff. It smelled faintly of mildew.

  In the living room, Barry was sitting on the couch with a can of Dr Pepper balanced on his knee. On the television, Jerry Springer moved farther away from the stage, signaling to the audience things were about to get ugly. One of the men stood up, brandishing a chair and threw it at another man. Security moved in, and the audience went wild. The title of the show appeared in the corner. “WHAT I REALLY THINK OF YOU, DAD!”

  Jar stood behind Barry and watched the stage get destroyed by a beefy guy. He said, “Let’s go, if we’re going.”

  Barry didn’t look away from the chaos on the television. He drained the can and burped, “We’re going.”

  They went outside and headed for a beaten down path that cut through scrub oaks and mesquite trees. They walked in silence for awhile until Barry pulled a baseball out from under his towel. He tossed it in the air a couple of times until it caught Jar’s attention.

  Jar glanced between the ball and Barry. “Man, I’m not playing catch in this heat, so you can just forget it.” The dry wind found its way through the trees, and a small dirt devil danced on the path a few feet ahead of them.

  Barry gave a smug smile. “This ball ain’t for playing catch.”

  Jar tried to get a better look at the ball as it deftly left his friend’s hand. “It’s just a baseball, right?”

  Barry raised his eyebrows and exaggerated a disappointed sigh. “Well, I guess in some ways it’s just a baseball… and in others it’s the only baseball that won the sixth game during the 1975 World Series in the 12th inning.

  Jar’s jaw dropped open in disbelief. “You’re a damn liar!”

  Barry laughed and caught the ball in his hand. He spun it around and displayed the scrawled signature of Carlton Fisk, the year 1975 etched neatly beneath the name.

  Awestruck, Jar reached out to touch the ball, his fingertips running lightly over the signature. In a voice hollow with dread he asked, “Where did you get it?”

  Grinning, Barry turned the ball so he could admire the signature. “I borrowed it from my dad’s collection.”

  Jar took a step back and his hand dropped to his side. “Take it back right now, before he sees it’s gone.”

  A shadow touched Barry’s handsome face and he gripped the ball tighter. “Forget it Jar, I’m not taking it back until I’m ready.” He stepped past his friend and started down the path toward their swimming hole.

  Jar stared grimly at Barry’s back and the three-inch scar just below his shoulder. It should have served as a reminder to Barry not to touch his dad’s collection. But it didn’t. If anything he taunted his father more than ever. There were days when Barry would show up with a black eye or a fat lip, all gifts from his father. He laughed them off, displaying them like badges of courage.

  A sick feeling churned in Jar’s stomach. The only time his mother had ever hit him was after he had stayed out all night without calling. She had whipped him good with a switch from a tree and she was crying the whole time. Barry’s dad might be the richest man in Junction, but Jar wouldn’t trade places with Barry Tanner for all the money in the world, not even if it meant getting cable TV.

  They kept walking, each boy lost in his own thoughts. Further along the trail a rustling in the bushes got their attention. Barry glanced over with a quizzical look. He made a shushing motion when Jar started to speak. Moving his finger in a circular motion around his ear he pointed toward the bushes. He mouthed the words: “Psycho Suzy.”

  Jar nodded he understood and waited for Barry to take the lead. Barry stepped toward the bushes and to Jar’s shock, pulled out his penis.

  “Goddamn Jar, I must have drank too much soda pop at your house, I’ve got to take myself a piss.” A yellow stream arched into the bushes followed by a shout of disgust.

  Suzy Jobes walked out of the bushes and threw a dirty look in Barry’s direction. She had earned the nickname, “psycho” back in the third grade when she had knocked another student to the floor after he spit in her hair. To Jar, she said, “I don’t know why you hang out with this pig!”

  Laughing, Barry ignored the look and finished relieving himself. With a deep sigh he finished, bounced once and slipped his penis back into his pants. He winked at Jar and turned to look at Suzy. “What’s the matter Psycho did I get some on you?”

  Jar tried to suppress his laughter but couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. This slip earned him a wrathful look from Suzy, who turned with a flip of her brown hair and managed to encompass both of them with her glaring eyes.

  “That’s right bald ass Barry, laugh it up, but I’m sure I’ll get the last laugh when your dad finds out about that ball you’ve got.”

  Barry stopped laughing and gave her a dirty look.

  Empowered, she continued to taunt him. “Maybe he’ll decorate your backside again, and give you a matching scar down your left side.”

  Jar held his breath as Barry balled up his fist and stepped toward Suzy.

  Her hazel eyes flashed their challenge as her mouth goaded him on to action. “You gonna hit a girl, Barry? Last time I checked only wussy boys hit girls. Maybe that’s what I oughta call you...wussy boy Barry.”

  Jar threw Suzy a look, pleading for her to stop, but it was too late. Barry flew at her and knocked her to the ground before Jar could even blink. She fought like a wild cat, rolling under him, hissing and spitting. Before Barry could get her hands down, she managed to dig her nails into his left cheek. He twisted her hand away and pinned her to the ground.

  Suzy’s chest heaved and her hair covered her face. Barry’s eyes were wild. He looked a little crazed, with three thin lines of blood coming down his cheek, mixing in with the dirt and the sweat. Holding Suzy’s hands with one of his own, he lifted his right hand and touched his left cheek. He winced when the salt from his sweat found raw skin. When he drew his fingers away he saw blood.

  Barry’s left eye twitched as once again a sharp blade of pain sliced through his skull. An uncontrollable rage swept through him. He shoved his fingers in front of her eyes. “You see this? You see what you did to me, you little bitch!” He twisted her arms tighter. She let out a small cry and started to flay her legs. Extending one of his own legs, Barry managed to hold hers down. During the scuffle her shirt rode up, revealing the white expanse of her belly. His eyes lit on her exposed skin and took on a menacing gleam. He reached under her shirt and grabbed one of her breasts.

  Squeezing harder he whispered: “How does that feel, you like that?”

  Suzy twisted her head away and Barry unable to restrain himself started to grind her with his crotch.“Is this what you want? Is this why you’re always following us? You got a little peek and now you want the real thing.”

  In dazed disbelief, Jar watched the scene unfold in front of him. He didn’t know if it was a sick joke or how far Barry would take it, but he thought it had gone far enough. He called out Barry’s name, but it went unnoticed. Frustrated he charged Barry and pushed him off of Suzy.“Come on Barry, knock it off!”

  While the two boys scuffled in the dirt, Suzy made a dash for the bushes. Barry outweighed his friend by a good twenty pounds and it was an easy pin, but Jar wouldn’t stop struggling. Barry felt the anger wash out of him and started laughing. He rolled off his friend. “Come on Jar, I was just having a little fun with her.” The dull quality in his tone didn’t quite match the smirk on his mouth. He dropped his
gaze and brushed the dirt off his body.

  Breathing heavily, his face red with heat, Jar wiped sweat from his eyes. “It didn’t look like a little fun to me.”

  Barry couldn’t explain what happened. He still felt dazed like his head was stuffed with cotton, and Jar’s voice sounded like it was coming from a mile away. Managing a dismissive look he said, “I just wanted to scare her a little. She’s always following us. Now maybe she won’t.”

  Jar gave Barry a skeptical look. He walked toward the bushes, calling out, “Suzy, you still there?” Except for a slight rustling in the bushes, there was no response. He took a deep breath and yelled again. “Come on Suzy, Barry has something he wants to say to you.”

  Barry gave him a startled look. He shook his head in the negative.

  Jar held his ground. “If you don’t apologize, I’ll walk over to your house and tell your dad about that goddamn ball myself. And when I’m through there, I’ll go over to Suzy’s house and tell her dad too.” He looked at the ground, contemplating his next words. “I’m not sure which will go worse for you, but I imagine you won’t look so handsome when they’re through with you.”

  Giving Jar a derisive look for being soft, Barry shook his head in disappointment. He called out to Suzy. “Hey Psycho, you can come out, I’m not going to hurt you.” He paused, waiting. “Come on Suzy, I was just trying to scare you.” He shrugged his shoulders at Jar to say see, she’s not even there.

  After a moment, Suzy peered out from the bushes. Her face was smeared with long streaks where her tears had cut through the dirt and her hair hung down in her eyes. With a wary look she stepped onto the trail.

  Jar grabbed his towel off the ground. “We’re going swimming, you want to come?”

  Suzy knew she should go home. Barry was always capable of being mean but today there had been something different, something menacing about his presence that went beyond the physical attack. Her eyes flicked between the two boys in uncertainty. Jar’s gaze was imploring, Barry’s indifferent—the hostility present only a moment earlier already gone.