Page 36 of Bad Intentions

I knew Alysha wasn’t an angel. I wanted to grow a flower, and she turned into poison ivy. And she drew trouble. That summer, twenty-five years ago, I thought she could handle it on her own.

Dougie stormed into my bar on the fair-week Tuesday. Early in the evening, Ma Shirley’s was half empty, but he was already three sheets to the wind and ready to break someone’s bones.

“She told you about that schmuck?” he angrily slurred into my face.

“What’s happening, Dougie?” I asked calmly.

He leaned on his fists on the bar counter, his eyes bloodshot, his baseball hat askew. “That hotshot she and Vic are parading around. She with him?”

Derek. I knew it. I’d heard enough rumors. Talked to her about it. She’d denied it and got angry. Too much of that anger lately, and I wondered if Derek was the cause.

I studied Dougie for a moment. “You tell me, Dougie. She doesn’t tell me much. What’s going on?”

He adjusted his baseball hat, swished spit in his mouth, all rattled up, I could tell. “Saw ’em several times, the three of ’em, all cozy, happy, like a pack of dogs. ’Cept I can’t figure out what’s going on there. Is he with Al? With Vic? Can’t get nothing from Al. She keeps saying ’s none of my business. That we are over.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Doesn’t matter. You know I love her, Mrs. Boots, and that guy is scum. I was pulling out of the fairground the other night. Sure, I’d had a couple of beers.”

I’d say more like a six-pack. I knew those boys.

“So, we see him chatting up some skirt,” he continued. “I called him over to have a talk, man-to-man, ye know? Tell him to stay away from Alysha. He told me to beat it. So, ye know, I got a little wound up, wanted to toss him around, show him his place. Got in his face.” Dougie’s face hardened with the anger I knew well. “That guy steps into me, and next thing I know, I feel a gun in my crotch.” His lips curl in a nasty way. “Don’t know where that came from. I keep mine in the car. His was right there. Don’t know if he carries it on him at all times or what’s up. And then he says—” Dougie licked his lips and leaned closer. “Says, ‘I see you around again, I will shoot your balls off, bury you in the woods, then take your sister with me to the city, have my time with her, then pass her around to all the guys who need a free ride, then come back and do the same to your fucking cousins and second cousins.’ And on and on he goes, ye know, threatening me like that?”

A dumpster set on fire? That was a kid’s prank. This sort of talk? That was dangerous, despite the fact that Dougie could stretch a tale longer than a piece of taffy. Chop it in half if you want to know the truth.

Dougie kept rambling as I served him ice water—he needed to clear his head. I knew his pride was hurt, his inflated ego shot. But I replayed Derek’s words in my head, and none of it sounded like a prank. Not even a threat. He was a talking, walking crime waiting to happen.

I just didn’t know yet that he would leave some of us with blood on our hands.

22

JOSIE

I never thought I’d see the day when Grandma’s enemy would be smoking on her porch.

Yet here she is, Donna Snickett, doing just that. Her deadly stare is on my car as I slowly drive by and park under the carport. The chief’s car is parked in the back alley. I’m not sure whether this scenario is good or bad.

I approach her warily, certain something is going on in the house. I think the glare is permanent on Mrs. Snickett’s face. Just like her clothes. Same gray beanie on her head. Same knee-length blue parka I see her wearing in the cold months in her front yard. Same fingerless gloves, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a cigarette close to her tightly pressed lips.

“Mrs. Snickett,” I greet her as I step to the side door she’s blocking with no intention to move. “Are you…”

Is she visiting? Is she here to rattle Grandma? Considering the chief is here, this looks like an old-timers’ meetup, and that’s already strange, because Grandma and Mrs. Snickett haven’t talked in almost three decades.

“Are you visiting Grandma?” I ask shyly.

She’s intimidating, smelling like old tobacco and stale booze, and looks like she’s about to punch me. While I side-eye her, she stares bluntly.

“What does it look like?”

Her voice is raspy. I haven’t heard her talk in years since the last time I saw her, sometime in high school.

“Is the chief inside?” I ask, because she still doesn’t step aside to let me through.

“Do you see his car?”

“Yeah, in the back alley.”

She raises her brows in a silent, See? What does that tell you?