Chapter 4 #3
Floy leaned forward. “My house. It was mine before I knew you existed. I had Elvis for years before we met. You dated me anyway. When I fell in love with you and proposed, I reminded you about Elvis again. You said you didn’t care. You were lying before you said, ‘I do.’”
Mayrene reached to embrace him, then remembered the healing cuts on his chest and threw down her last hope. “Mama told me to. She thought maybe if Elvis caused you enough trouble, you would get rid of him.”
All the piss and vinegar went out of Quilla like air from a deflating balloon. “I didn’t—”
Floy held up his hand without looking at Quilla. His gaze was still locked on his wife.
“Both of you, shut your lying mouths. Mayrene, your hour starts now. You don’t take anything from this house but your stuff.
Everything we’ve lived with together was mine before you.
You’re not getting alimony. You’re not getting a settlement, and if Chief Arnold can find the right laws to address the false information you created, and the wasted manpower they spent on your stupid stunt, the only thing you’re likely to get out of this disaster is criminal charges. Get! Now!”
“No, Floy, no. Please don’t do this,” Mayrene wailed.
“None of that’s my decision,” Floy said. “You break laws. The law comes after the lawbreakers—not the stupid people who happened to be married or related to them.”
Mayrene moaned, then jumped to her feet, grabbing black trash bags from the pantry before running to the bedroom. Quilla and Floy were right behind her as she began throwing her clothes on the bed.
With Floy only inches from her back, Quilla leaped forward and began stuffing clothes into garbage bags while Floy stood guard, making sure they left his things alone.
When they moved into the bathroom, he moved with them, watching from the doorway. Then when she ran into the laundry room to get her everyday shoes that she wore to the garden, he followed again.
Mayrene kept glancing over her shoulder at the rage he made no attempt to hide. She thought Elvis had been her nemesis, but she had misjudged her husband. He was scary-as-hell mad, and he had just glanced at his watch.
“You have five more minutes. Give me your house key. And for the record, there will be new locks on this house before sundown tomorrow.”
“What happened to Elvis?” Mayrene asked, her eyes swimming with tears.
“I gave him away to a guy with a snake exhibit. Elvis is the new star of the show. But I didn’t do it for you.
I did it because he didn’t deserve the shit you put him through, and neither did I.
” He glanced down at his watch as she handed him her key.
“Time’s up. Get out. Both of you. Your divorce papers will be served in due time, and I will spend the rest of my life wishing I’d never met you. ”
The women were trying to drag the bags out the door when Floy picked up the last of the bags and threw them out into the yard, then locked the door behind them.
He watched from a window while they began dragging the bags to Quilla’s car.
Then he watched them having another fuss until Quilla yanked her car keys out of her daughter’s hand and got in the car.
He was emotionally done and tired—so tired— but he stood waiting for them to get off his property. He could tell Mayrene was bawling, and Quilla was yelling as they backed up and drove away.
He heard the dryer go off. His feet dragged as he took the sheets from the dryer and tossed them on the bed, then got his car keys, the grocery list, and took his phone off the charger and dropped it in his pocket before he headed out the door.
It was time to put his life back together.
He drove to Conrad’s Pic Pac grocery store and parked, dreading the confrontations of people he’d once thought of as friends—people who were his clients.
People he’d grown up with. All of whom had, for a time, believed him capable of murder.
He didn’t know how he’d ever get past how fast they’d believed him guilty.
He was a walking mass of solid pain as he entered the grocery store.
He pulled his grocery list out of his pocket and grabbed a shopping cart.
The chatter within the store was business as usual, with the occasional voice-over the intercom about a spill in aisle nine, or a name being announced over the same intercom that a prescription ready to be picked up at the pharmacy.
He glanced at his list. Bread and hamburger buns.
He headed for the bread aisle, adding a box of cereal before he moved to the aisle where the coffee and K-cups for his Keurig were shelved.
Next, he went to canned goods to replenish the empty shelves in the pantry.
He knew there were still jars of green beans in the basement, but he’d never eat green beans again.
The paper aisle was next. He added toilet paper and paper towels to his cart before heading to the aisle with laundry soap and dryer sheets.
The more he shopped, the quieter the store became, but it took him a bit to realize it, and when he did, he looked up and caught people staring.
He saw their shame-faced expressions before they quickly looked away.
Shoppers passed him in aisles; some nodded while others were unable to look at him face-to-face.
The old woman, whose porch he’d once fixed, patted his arm as she passed by.
Another one whispered, “God bless you,” and then flushed beet red when he met her gaze.
There was a lump in his throat as he added a six-pack of Mountain Dew, two different kinds of cookies, and then moved to the meat aisle and deli counters at the back of the store.
The butcher looked up. “Evenin’, Floy. How can I help you?”
He glanced down at his list. “A cold rotisserie chicken, two pounds of hamburger meat, and a pound of that shaved ham,” he said, then tossed in a package of sliced bacon from the cooler display as he waited.
Sister Carter, the Baptist preacher’s wife, came flying up behind him, pushing her cart and texting at the same time, accidentally bumping into the back of his legs.
Floy groaned from yet another added pain and grabbed onto his cart to keep from dropping to his knees.
“Sorry,” she muttered, then looked up and saw the multi-colored destruction of Floy’s face, the bead of sweat above his upper lip, and the knuckles going white on his hands from the grip he had on the cart. “Oh dear! Floy! I am so very sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”
He glanced at the phone in her hands and saw the text she had yet to send. “No, ma’am. The need was two days ago. FYI, it’s against the law to text and drive.”
The butcher began handing Floy his packaged orders. “Here you go, buddy.” As soon as Floy moved away, the butcher looked up. “Who’s next?”
Floy moved to the dairy aisle, added a half-gallon of milk to his cart, a container of cream, a dozen eggs, then two refrigerated containers of soup and a packet of pre-sliced cheese.
The last place he went was to the produce section for a head of lettuce and some tomatoes.
Couldn’t make a bacon sandwich without a ’mater.
He scanned his list one last time, then headed to the front of the store to the checkout stand. He was passing the aisle with peanut butter and jelly when he heard someone call out to him and looked up.
Razor and Beau Langley were coming toward him with unashamed tears in their eyes.
“Floy, bro . . .” Razor muttered. “We didn’t know.
We didn’t know. The night we all went home after searching in the park, we got home to news that Granny Langley had passed.
We sent you a text and left for Louisville that night without remembering you’d lost your phone in the creek.
We just got back today, only to find out about all this. ”
Beau couldn’t quit staring at Floy’s face. “I don’t know what all happened, but we can see it wasn’t good. We’re so damn sorry we weren’t here for you. Do you hurt as bad as you look?”
Floy’s composure cracked. They were his roofing crew. His fishing pals. His two best friends, and they hadn’t abandoned him like he thought. It took everything he had not to cry again—a sign that he was far from over the emotional breakdown.
“Even when I blink,” he said. “I’m sure sorry about your granny. I know how much she meant to the family. Soon as I pay for this, I’m going home. I’ll have to heal a bit more before I can get back to work. Stop by anytime.”
Beau and Razor turned and walked with him, still standing at his side as he paid for his groceries. They followed him out to the truck and loaded the bags into the back seat for him.
“Okay, if we stop by tomorrow? Maybe around noon? We’ll bring longnecks and barbecue,” Razor said.
Floy sighed. That was a first. They never paid for the food. He couldn’t tell them no. “Sure. Come on over,” he said. “I should have the house put back together by then.”
The brothers looked at each other as Floy got in the truck and drove away.
“The house put back together? What the hell happened?” Beau muttered.
Razor shook his head. “Whatever it was, it had to be bad.”