The Devil's Beating His Wife by Siobhán Béabhar Page B

unexpected brain seizures. He had been rejected after his medical evaluation.
    Then there was Charles Vincent. He sat in my brother's passenger seat and stared at me with cold dead eyes. Unlike the others, he had actually served in the Marines for a spell. He had too many behavioral issues and had been let out with a less than honorable discharge. Rumor had it he spent a few weeks locked in the brig, but no one was sure what had he done to get there.
    My little brother, with his flat feet and uneven legs, sighed deeply, turning his eyes away from me. He continued driving slowly, matching my uneven gait. After a few moments spent gathering his thoughts, Carver finally turned back to me and said, "Imagine my surprise when I heard that my big brother, the war hero, had been threatened by a nigger."
    Spicey might be a lot of things, but she wasn't no nigger. "What you doin' here, Carver?"
    "Come to check on my big brother, that's what. What you doin' over on the nigger side, Baxter?"
    "That's none of your concern."
    There was a hissing sound from the passenger seat. Charlie Vincent was buck-toothed with shaggy red hair. On the surface, I reckon most people thought he was a simpleton, particularly with his freckles, slight stutter, and lack of manners. However, he was the meanest man of the meanest lot.
    Nixon leaned over the side of the truck and said, "I got wind that you went into that nigger store. Carver here didn't believe me. He said his big brother wouldn't be dumb enough to go wandering over there. He told us to get into the truck 'cuz he was gonna prove us wrong. I imagine it must have been a damn shock when we done turned the corner and seen you standing there petrified of some damn porch monkeys. I bet he damn near—"
    "Nick, why don't you just shut the fuck up?" Charlie said. "Nobody's interested in hearing your bullshit." The look in Charlie's eyes froze me in place. He looked coldly at me, as if he was weighing the value of my life. I imagined in his mind, he considered whether it would be more trouble to kill me or ignore me. It was a look that I had never expected to see outside of the war.
    I nodded in his direction. He turned away and glanced out of the window, but not before I saw the suppressed violence in his eyes. My gaze was drawn to my brother's movements. He turned around in his seat and glanced back towards Ms. Della's store. Then his eyes swiveled in my direction. His jaw locked as he stared at me.
    "What's this about, Carver?" I said. "I don't need no one to be looking in on me. You or otherwise." I pinned my gaze on Charlie. "Y'all can just go on back home." All we'd need was Mitchell Worthington and it'd be the same group of rowdy boys from that cursed night. Mitchell, the quiet one of the pack, had died last summer while storming the beaches of Normandy.
    They were obviously restless, wanting to burn away the boredom with violence. In spite of my offended feelings at being turned away and laughed at, I knew I couldn't give these boys any cause to escalate things. With so many of our kin fighting and dying abroad, the last thing we needed was to bring the violence to our backyard.
    "How about we just head on down to Madge's place and have ourselves a drink? It's a damn hot day, and I'd like to buy all y'all a beer."
    Moving towards the back of the truck, I unhooked the tailgate. With my good leg, I stepped onto the bed and raised my hand towards Richard for help. He stared down at my hand and then glanced back at my face. For a moment, we remained in our places.
    Nixon nudged Richard's leg. He then reached out and took my hand, pulling me into the truck. I closed the tailgate and glanced into the truck's cab, making eye contact with Carver. I slammed my palm against the truck's side. "I'm in."
    Carver's head fell to his chest as he shifted his truck into gear. We finally pulled onto the road, driving away from the county border. I sat in the back of the truck, watching as Ms. Della's place grew