On The Rainbow Road

The crack of gunshot dispersed. It was quiet. Nothing to disturb the peace of the Mississippi dusk except the relentless hum of cicada song. That, and Iris.

Whiplike branches bowed, twigs crunching underfoot as she pushed clear of the trees and scraggy undergrowth where Lester lay and dropped to her haunches beside his pickup, annihilating a tear with balled-up fist.

Nothin’ but a stupid waste of time. Just like thinking about mama and home. Ain’t no home. Stop bein’ a crybaby-stupid-crybaby.

Mouth pursed, she stared at the swaying ropes hanging from the lower branches of a gnarled beech and for a minute was mesmerised, watching the frayed ends dancing, hardly aware as something slipped her grip.

The thud brought her back as surely as Lester’s hand across her cheek. Still stung like a bitch.

She steadied herself, stood. Pulled a pair of crumpled britches from the truck bed, ones she’d started to grow out of, ones mama had given him for grease rags, then tugged her torn pinafore over her head and stuffed it inside her satchel, all the while scanning the woods and farm track for movement, ears pricked for the slightest sound. Nothing came. Only whispers. The lazy shushing of wind beyond the clearing as it brushed the needles of tall pines.

She heaved on the britches and turned back to see Lester’s gun on the ground where she’d dropped it, reaching for it, hesitating, fingers clenching and unclenching.

Sum-bitch!

Swiping it up, she let it fall like a dead rat into the satchel. Her lip curled instinctively as she quickly wrapped the nest of her pinafore around it before opening the door to the pickup, sliding it across the seat with her hip. On the dash sat a crumpled baseball cap. She pulled it on, tucking her hair up inside, teeth gritted against the feel of oil and grit, the smell of Lester. Wrinkling her nose, she scrubbed her hands over her pants.

Now what?

Shuffling forward, she grappled around the steering column for the keys, hand closed round the cool of the ignition.

Don’t be chickenshit, that’s what.

With heart kicking and palm greasy against the wheel, she twisted the key, mimicking what she’d seen a thousand times. Only this time the truck made an ear-splitting grinding sound, bucking forward as her feet pumped wildly at the pedals. With slack mouth and eyes wide she flew towards the side of a barn, engine stalling as the fender crumpled, violent, against the wall.

“Sum-BITCH.”

Straightening the cap and rubbing at the base of her neck, she snatched the satchel, slid back out, a swirl of disturbed dust seeming to cut her off at the ankle.

Should’ve learned to drive before now, stupid.

On the side of Pinker Farm Road under an old magnolia tree, oblivious to the scent of crisp, creamy blooms, Iris squinted into the distance. Then she was walking fast, leading with her forehead, like a bull, and thinking all the things she hated about the town she was leaving.