Read Online Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joshilyn Jackson
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shoulders up high, shoving uselessly at the dog with her little fat seamstress’s hands. The two of them landed together, the dog’s weight slamming into her stomach. It got its teeth in her, puncturing the meat of her upper arm and then releasing and digging into her at the shoulder.
The Bitch shook her head back and forth, jerking at Genny.
The pain was immediate and awful but very welcome, because it was stronger than the fear. Once the pain started, she could think; she could clinically feel her flesh tearing away and the smoky heat of the dog’s body bracing into hers. Genny thrust her forearm in the dog’s throat and began beating at the Bitch’s back with her other hand, shoving herself along the sidewalk with her feet. She could feel the concrete tearing her dress and the skin of her back as she wormed away. She didn’t care. She had to get out from under, because she knew when the two big males came, she would be dead in a matter of seconds, and she absolutely could not be dead. She heard Mama screaming, and in her very center, in some calm place that was watching with mild interest as the dog killed her, a voice said, “Oh, that’s probably a good idea,” so she started screaming, too.
Henry Crabtree was trying to sell a Dennis Lehane on tape to a trucker who had stopped in to see if the bookstore carried any decent porn. Henry made a lot of sales this way; the truckers who paused in Between to gas up generally took to him. There was something a bit dirty about Henry that belied his crisp white shirts and fine-boned face. It lived in the hollows of his severely cut cheekbones or maybe in the permanent dark circles that made his eyes look deep-set and older than the rest of him. It was hard to pin down, but Henry seemed like he might have an opium pipe or an ivory-handled knife in the back pocket of his tailored khaki pants.
He had the trucker all but sold when he heard my mama start screaming. At first he couldn’t identify the source of the wail; it didn’t sound human. He looked quizzically at the trucker, who shrugged.
“Steam whistle?” the trucker said.
Then Genny started screaming, too, and Henry said, “No,”
and vaulted the counter, knocking the big trucker aside and sprinting out the door. Bernese had come out of her store already and was puffing past, her stocky legs pumping as she ran toward her sisters. Henry passed Bernese easily, and as he went by the diner, he yelled, “Call 911” to Trude, who was standing openmouthed in the doorway. She disappeared back inside.
The Bitch already had Genny by the time Henry could see them. The male dogs were practically scraping the skin off their heads trying to get through the gap in the gate. Stacia was crawl-ing down the center of the road, keening. Henry didn’t stop; he was afraid that at any moment the Bitch would burrow down deep enough into Genny’s neck to tear open an artery.
Henry threw himself onto the dog, trying to lever her mouth open with his hands. His long black hair escaped its leather tie and got into his eyes, blinding him, and in that moment the dog released Genny and clamped down hard on his forearm.
Ona Crabtree came loping around the corner from the front of the gas station with her graying red hair slopping out of its bun.
She was calling, “Here, dog, got-dammit, here, dog, here, got-dammit, here.” The Bitch ignored her, but the males froze immediately and slunk away from the fence. Lobe was at Ona’s heels, red-faced and sweating in his coveralls. He came bearing down on the scene with a choke chain and a grim expression, his bushy orange beard bristling fiercely.
Bernese huffed up and peeled Stacia up out of the street, then led her to the side of the road. Stacia was signing in frenzied bursts, and Bernese, who had never learned ASL, was trying to capture her hands and manually spell out “OK” into them. She was so flustered that she was actually signing “BK, BK, BK” over and over again, and
The Bitch shook her head back and forth, jerking at Genny.
The pain was immediate and awful but very welcome, because it was stronger than the fear. Once the pain started, she could think; she could clinically feel her flesh tearing away and the smoky heat of the dog’s body bracing into hers. Genny thrust her forearm in the dog’s throat and began beating at the Bitch’s back with her other hand, shoving herself along the sidewalk with her feet. She could feel the concrete tearing her dress and the skin of her back as she wormed away. She didn’t care. She had to get out from under, because she knew when the two big males came, she would be dead in a matter of seconds, and she absolutely could not be dead. She heard Mama screaming, and in her very center, in some calm place that was watching with mild interest as the dog killed her, a voice said, “Oh, that’s probably a good idea,” so she started screaming, too.
Henry Crabtree was trying to sell a Dennis Lehane on tape to a trucker who had stopped in to see if the bookstore carried any decent porn. Henry made a lot of sales this way; the truckers who paused in Between to gas up generally took to him. There was something a bit dirty about Henry that belied his crisp white shirts and fine-boned face. It lived in the hollows of his severely cut cheekbones or maybe in the permanent dark circles that made his eyes look deep-set and older than the rest of him. It was hard to pin down, but Henry seemed like he might have an opium pipe or an ivory-handled knife in the back pocket of his tailored khaki pants.
He had the trucker all but sold when he heard my mama start screaming. At first he couldn’t identify the source of the wail; it didn’t sound human. He looked quizzically at the trucker, who shrugged.
“Steam whistle?” the trucker said.
Then Genny started screaming, too, and Henry said, “No,”
and vaulted the counter, knocking the big trucker aside and sprinting out the door. Bernese had come out of her store already and was puffing past, her stocky legs pumping as she ran toward her sisters. Henry passed Bernese easily, and as he went by the diner, he yelled, “Call 911” to Trude, who was standing openmouthed in the doorway. She disappeared back inside.
The Bitch already had Genny by the time Henry could see them. The male dogs were practically scraping the skin off their heads trying to get through the gap in the gate. Stacia was crawl-ing down the center of the road, keening. Henry didn’t stop; he was afraid that at any moment the Bitch would burrow down deep enough into Genny’s neck to tear open an artery.
Henry threw himself onto the dog, trying to lever her mouth open with his hands. His long black hair escaped its leather tie and got into his eyes, blinding him, and in that moment the dog released Genny and clamped down hard on his forearm.
Ona Crabtree came loping around the corner from the front of the gas station with her graying red hair slopping out of its bun.
She was calling, “Here, dog, got-dammit, here, dog, here, got-dammit, here.” The Bitch ignored her, but the males froze immediately and slunk away from the fence. Lobe was at Ona’s heels, red-faced and sweating in his coveralls. He came bearing down on the scene with a choke chain and a grim expression, his bushy orange beard bristling fiercely.
Bernese huffed up and peeled Stacia up out of the street, then led her to the side of the road. Stacia was signing in frenzied bursts, and Bernese, who had never learned ASL, was trying to capture her hands and manually spell out “OK” into them. She was so flustered that she was actually signing “BK, BK, BK” over and over again, and
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