Chapter 3: Widow's Yawn
Billy the Grim - an original supernatural suspense thriller by Annette J Sharp
Chapter 3
Widow’s Yawn
An invader emerges from the vortex of overgrown bushes and wind-haggard trees. Each rotation of the vehicle’s wheels turns back time by decades or centuries, for a people steeped in old-world traditions and beliefs. Lively music and colorful tents Sharma once enjoyed now make her an outsider, under the constraints of her new mindset. She cranks the Celica hard left, veering away from the courtyard to the rear of the charming cabin. None of the Romani milling between a handful of striped canopies takes notice.
She parks beneath a rugged cottonwood. The speckled patterns of shade and sunlight give a camouflage appeal. Sharma shuts off the engine, glancing through the windshield at the windows and door beyond the porch. No signs of life. She takes a deep breath, throwing open the car door. She reaches for her purse only to dismiss it.
“You’re not going to be here that long, remember?” The reminder has become Sharma’s mantra since deciding to drive to Widow’s Yawn earlier this morning.
Sharma steps out of the car, slams the door, and draws a deep breath. The scent of sagebrush, dirt, aging wildflowers, and threads of campfire smoke used to relieve her tension. The muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten up again as she climbs the steps of the back porch and turns the patinaed doorknob. Dr. Woods would not approve, her mind scolds. Sharma pushes open the door and crosses the threshold anyway. He couldn’t be any more disappointed than by the message she had left him on his voicemail saying she was not ready to attempt a regression.
Sharma closes the door and leans against it, sealing her fate with one decisive click. Her eyes drift over Olhana’s simple and cozy bedroom. Warm wood floors, a twin bed with a brass headrail, and a faded patchwork quilt. The wall to her right boasts a large bookshelf full to the hilt with her aunt’s collection of hardbound books. Mostly horror, thriller, and mystery fiction. No romance, though. Olhana detested sap of any kind.
Sharma pushes off, willing her feet to carry her to the doorway separating the bedroom from the kitchen. Despite her resolve not to look, or perhaps because of it, her eyes go to the section stacked with tomes of family history, memoirs, recipe books for natural healing. The vacant space on the bookshelf belongs to the Eternity Book. So, she named it as a child. Olhana forbade her to read it until she deemed her ready. Still, Sharma admired the book’s leather cover with an unusual, embossed design of an eternity symbol on the front. A pair of gold rings intertwined.
When she found the book on her doormat this morning, Sharma was surprised. Never believing her aunt would actually think she was ready for the book. It was Olhana’s cryptic note tucked inside the book, beckoning her to Widow’s Yawn, which had her concerned. The reason she is breaking her promise to Dr. Woods to avoid contact with her aunt.
“Everything will be fine.” She whispers the words into the room. Their tangible formation strengthens her resolve. At least that is what Dr. Woods has told her. If he saw her right now, he would probably rub his temples to calm himself over her selective use of his guidance.
“Auntie?” Her call is half warning for anyone who may be lounging in the living room. A rarity, which required Olhana to be in exceptional spirits or partaking in a puff of her special tobacco.
At the front room window, sounds of life penetrate the glass. A group of kids has gathered between the cabin and the airstream, tossing a small red and white sack around between them. Hacky sack. Beyond them sits the silver AirStream trailer. Aunt Olhana spends most of her time there. She pushes the strand of hair slipping from the bobby pin she used to restrain it.
“Quit stalling,” she tells herself. Get in, get the downlow and get out. A simple plan now complicated by all the things she has been trying to avoid the past six months. All things gypsy. Chances are slim she will make it to the trailer without being noticed and forced to engage.
Resolute to have this encounter with her aunt successful, short, stress free, Sharma exits the cabin. Down the porch stairs, she marches toward the silver trailer. She ignores the children as she passes, and they oblige the same – continuing with their game. The remarkable thing about children, they don’t expect shallow pleasantries from people simply walking by.
Nearing the trailer, a knot hardens at the base of her stomach. She begins a mental recitation of head bones, which often calms her before she names all twenty-two. Skull. Parietal. Frontal. Temporal. Occipital. Manda – thwack!
Sharma stops, raising a hand to the back of her skull where something struck her. She spins to face the giggling children. Instant silence falls over them, and they cluster together, hands closing over their smiles, eyes wide.
“Who did that?” She looks face-to-face for guilt.
One boy, older than the others – if his height is any measure, separates from the group. “Sorry, ma’am,” he mutters, before sprinting away in the direction of the canopy tents, huddled at the opposite side of the courtyard.
“He didn’t mean it,” says a tall, slender girl. She wraps a protective arm across the chest of a smaller boy standing in front of her. Her pointy chin juts forward with courage in the face of an elder, but not defiance.
“He’s not very good at hacky sack. He’s sorry about it.” The girl gives the boy a squeeze. “Aren’t you?”
“Gawl, it was just an assident,” the boy mumbles, not looking at Sharma.
“You still have to be sorry, Billy. The lady’s head hurts now,” she admonishes.
Sharma blanches, hearing the boy’s name but keeps her expression neutral.
“Well, I don’t think you caused me permanent damage. It only hurt a little, so—” She bends to scoop up the small white and red leather bag and is about to toss it to them when the boy, William, as she decides to think of him, tilts his head back to look at Sharma. His lips part as he sizes her up, eyes finally settling on hers.
“Can’t help you have a bread head,” he says, scuffing the toe of his boot into the loose dirt.
Sharma guesses the boy is about five or six. Hands stuffed inside the pockets of his baggy jeans, a grey cap sinched tight, but still too big, tilts to one side. The brim partially shields his eyes, now focused on the pleather sack in her hand. He wiggles inside his sagging, dust-brushed clothes, anxious to get back to the game.
“William Lazarus Bastrone!” A pretty young woman with tight, strawberry blond curls and fresh country girl face, walks toward them. Pale blue eyes focus on the boy, fine brows pinched.
When she reaches them, she places a hand on his shoulder and turns a bright, though slightly embarrassed smile to Sharma.
“I’m so sorry if my Billy is bothering you, Miss…”
“Oh, I’m Sharma. Sharma Brightly.”
“Suzy-B.”
Sharma accepts Suzy’s extended hand. “Nice to meet you. Not at all, your son is adorable. Reminds me of… someone I used to know. “
Her eyebrows raise slightly, then she glances down at her son. “Scoot, mister. Ms. Ollie says you can spend the night and watch for the angels.”
“He’s a bit rambunctious and a lot sassy, at times. My fault. He gets away with a lot, because of his…condition.”
“Yippee!” William makes an awkward hop. Sharma’s eyes catch the bulge of something rigid beneath the boy’s shirt. He looks at his mom.
“Are you staying for the shower, too?” He plants the question with excitement.
“No, little man. I’ll be helping set up for the carnival.” Suzy tells the boy with a pout, then smiles. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning to hear all about it, though.”
The trail of freckles over the bridge of William’s nose crinkles in an instant of disappointment. His eyes flash to Sharma.
“Are you staying for the meatier shower? Miss Ollie says it’s when the angels come to earth to grant wishes. They’re going to straighten my back, and I won’t need a stupid brace anymore, maybe not a heart either. Not a new one, anyways.”
Sharma stiffens, eyes darting to Suzy, whose smile looks too tight.
“No, I won’t be staying. I’m on duty at the Mercy Hospital this afternoon.”
Her heart wrenches at the boy’s unfaltering faith about having his wish granted. Sharma struggles to conceal her irritation over this revelation. Of course, the child is excited over false promises made by adults he trusts. She cannot believe Olhana would continue with this superstitious charade, not after what happened.
“Keep practicing your hacky sack,” Sharma says, tossing the soft ball to him. “Next time I see you, we’ll have a contest for Widow’s Yawn Hacky Champion. I currently hold the title.”
William catches the sack, lips parting with disbelief. “Champion? You’re too old…”
Sharma gives him a broad smile. “That’s why I’m a champion. Years of practice.”
“Billy,” Suzy interjects with a motherly tone that blocks further discussion. “Go get your things.
“Okay,” William moans, but quickly recovers and waves before running off. “Bye!”
He scurries away with surprising speed, despite his hindered gate, crossing the courtyard to a small travel trailer, and disappears inside.
“Your son is charming, full of the spunk of life.” Sharma instantly regrets the spunk of life portion of her comment, seeing an instant flicker of sadness cross Suzy’s face. She clears her throat in the uncomfortable moment, adding, “I don’t mean to be nosy, but is William under a doctor’s care for his scoliosis? I’m a nurse in Mercy’s pediatric unit and know a couple of great doctors I could…”
Suzy shakes her head, dragging her eyes from the half-shut trailer door to look at her. “I know about you, Sharma Brightly, so you can stop pretending, now.”
“What are you talking about?”
The rest of the children have also dispersed, and with the two of them alone, it appears Suzy Bee’s mask has dropped. Her previous sweet disposition is replaced by something far less appealing. Something feral.
“The judgment in your eyes is palpable. Everyone knows what you did to your aunt. How you’ve disavowed the carnies. The Romani. Your own people.” Her lips pull back from tight, pearly teeth. “Too good for us now. Eh?”
A flood of anger rushes into Sharma’s face. “And who exactly are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”
“A mother with a very sick child is who I am. What you think is right or wrong doesn’t matter to me. You’re nothing but a high and mighty bitch.”
Stunned by the woman’s slander and audacity, she wants to land a slap against her freckled cheek. She tries raw logic instead.
“You are a fool filling your son’s head with hopes based on fairytales and gypsy magic. What will you tell him when it doesn’t work?”
Suzy’s sky-blue irises darkening with unconcealed hatred.
“If Auntie Ollie wants to help Billy, you can’t stop it.” Her chest heaves with seething anger. “How dare you suggest I deny my boy what Olhana can grant him. You know it’s real as much as I do.”
Sharma grits her teeth to hold back saying something she will regret. Most of her anger is for herself. She made a stupid decision coming here. Dr. Woods is right. She is not ready to deal with any of this. Still, she can’t just walk away without explaining herself.
“I believe in science, Miss Bee, and logic. The only things we can count on in this illogical and unfair world. Entrusting your child’s health to fantasies and pipedreams, crossed fingers is foolishness that will only hurt him in the end. Maybe even kill him. I hope you can live with that.”
Sharma hated throwing such harsh words in the woman’s face, even if they were true. Obviously, they are wasted on Suzy, by the way she raises her chin. Her eyes narrow with a look she is about to unleash something Sharma will not want to hear. She decides not to give her the chance, spinning away. She swipes back her hair and stalks toward the Airstream, noticing a handful of people at the canopied area staring in their direction. Her hand wraps the door handle when Suzy B’s stinging words strike with an impact far exceeding the hacky sack.
“Maybe, your lack of faith is the reason your man offed himself. You sucked the life right out of him!”
Cheeks flaming, Sharma rips open the door to the trailer and storms inside. She never should have come here. This is not her home anymore.