was with your wife, Hanson.”
“You slimy—”
“Sit down, Derek,” the mayor interrupted and then added, “You know he’s not worth it.”
This garnered wide applause, but Vicki watched as the man blew it off, coiling his arm around a sunken woman—likely his wife—flashing his triumphant smirk at the unfortunate people seated around him.
† † †
Hank sat silent in the ongoing discord, knowing it was coming.
After thirty minutes of back and forth comments among the attendees, the subject of 1984 finally returned to haunt New Brighton. The trigger had always been there, lurking in everyone’s head—everyone who knew. Only now its chilling three words were given rebirth when a shrill woman’s voice finally cried the words, “Pieces of Eight!”
Eleven
“This is not Pieces of Eight ,” a man shouted in angry retort. “It’s fucking Pieces of Ivy !”
Rancor exploded, a foul mix of agreement and outrage. The mayor stepped forward, calling for calm.
Good luck. Hank couldn’t believe he used to be one of these locals. He gazed at the stage, listening to their rants, accusations and nonsensical prognostications—but was largely detached. He had expected the cursed phrase, so it hadn’t affected him like it had infused the room, but he was surprised that Vicki hadn’t reacted to it. As far as he knew, she had no idea.
Vicki raised her phone. “It’s Kempt, looking for a status. I’ll duck out and give the report. We’ll sync-up in the morning.”
“No, I’ll come with you.” The melding town voices around him ground against his skin like sand between glass. “There’s nothing going on here that Roscoe can’t update us both on in the morning.”
“That’s a waste—”
“ We will give our report,” he insisted.
She could hear the irritation in his voice. Child . “Fine. Let’s go.”
The vicious torrent of sharp echoes was shut behind the large doors. Blessed silence . She felt Hank’s energy also relax.
The length of the street was packed with cars but devoid of people as night approached. Everyone appeared to be at the assembly. The line of cars stretched from one end of Main Street to the other, consuming both sides. Her hard heels clacked and resounded along the empty street as they walked the three blocks back to the diner in complete silence. Her car sat parked in front of his. The eatery displayed a paper sign that had scribbled on it Closed for Assembly. Open again a.m. Murray .
Hank twirled his keys. “Your place or mine?”
She sneered at him. “Just try to keep up—I’ll drive slow.”
† † †
Having Vicki give the day’s report to his boss wasn’t actually Hank’s problem. His layers of issues ran deeper than he liked to admit. But that had only made it worse.
“What the?” Hank had expected to pull up to a motel. Instead, she stopped in front of a house. Even in the last moments of dusk, he could tell the home, though on the smaller side, was as well maintained as the manicured landscape. He pulled in behind her as she stood on the curb raising her convertible top and then locking her Corvette with a chirp.
Remaining in his car, Hank’s confused stare was illuminated by the brilliant blue 8:11 on his radio. Irritation prickled beneath his skin. She approached the narrow steps leading to the front door and then turned, mouthing impatiently, “Are you coming?”
Her copy of the signed rental agreement sat on the counter. That answered his first question. The bungalow felt spacious for its modest 1,400 square feet because of its open concept. Light maple floors spread across the area to the huge stone fireplace, carrying an impressive plasma TV.
He watched Vicki toss her bag onto the large granite island in the adjacent kitchen. A door to the left led into a shining bathroom nuzzled between two bedrooms. Impersonal art hung on every wall of the fully furnished home. While nothing fancy, it was a comfortable space.
He turned and looked at her
“You slimy—”
“Sit down, Derek,” the mayor interrupted and then added, “You know he’s not worth it.”
This garnered wide applause, but Vicki watched as the man blew it off, coiling his arm around a sunken woman—likely his wife—flashing his triumphant smirk at the unfortunate people seated around him.
† † †
Hank sat silent in the ongoing discord, knowing it was coming.
After thirty minutes of back and forth comments among the attendees, the subject of 1984 finally returned to haunt New Brighton. The trigger had always been there, lurking in everyone’s head—everyone who knew. Only now its chilling three words were given rebirth when a shrill woman’s voice finally cried the words, “Pieces of Eight!”
Eleven
“This is not Pieces of Eight ,” a man shouted in angry retort. “It’s fucking Pieces of Ivy !”
Rancor exploded, a foul mix of agreement and outrage. The mayor stepped forward, calling for calm.
Good luck. Hank couldn’t believe he used to be one of these locals. He gazed at the stage, listening to their rants, accusations and nonsensical prognostications—but was largely detached. He had expected the cursed phrase, so it hadn’t affected him like it had infused the room, but he was surprised that Vicki hadn’t reacted to it. As far as he knew, she had no idea.
Vicki raised her phone. “It’s Kempt, looking for a status. I’ll duck out and give the report. We’ll sync-up in the morning.”
“No, I’ll come with you.” The melding town voices around him ground against his skin like sand between glass. “There’s nothing going on here that Roscoe can’t update us both on in the morning.”
“That’s a waste—”
“ We will give our report,” he insisted.
She could hear the irritation in his voice. Child . “Fine. Let’s go.”
The vicious torrent of sharp echoes was shut behind the large doors. Blessed silence . She felt Hank’s energy also relax.
The length of the street was packed with cars but devoid of people as night approached. Everyone appeared to be at the assembly. The line of cars stretched from one end of Main Street to the other, consuming both sides. Her hard heels clacked and resounded along the empty street as they walked the three blocks back to the diner in complete silence. Her car sat parked in front of his. The eatery displayed a paper sign that had scribbled on it Closed for Assembly. Open again a.m. Murray .
Hank twirled his keys. “Your place or mine?”
She sneered at him. “Just try to keep up—I’ll drive slow.”
† † †
Having Vicki give the day’s report to his boss wasn’t actually Hank’s problem. His layers of issues ran deeper than he liked to admit. But that had only made it worse.
“What the?” Hank had expected to pull up to a motel. Instead, she stopped in front of a house. Even in the last moments of dusk, he could tell the home, though on the smaller side, was as well maintained as the manicured landscape. He pulled in behind her as she stood on the curb raising her convertible top and then locking her Corvette with a chirp.
Remaining in his car, Hank’s confused stare was illuminated by the brilliant blue 8:11 on his radio. Irritation prickled beneath his skin. She approached the narrow steps leading to the front door and then turned, mouthing impatiently, “Are you coming?”
Her copy of the signed rental agreement sat on the counter. That answered his first question. The bungalow felt spacious for its modest 1,400 square feet because of its open concept. Light maple floors spread across the area to the huge stone fireplace, carrying an impressive plasma TV.
He watched Vicki toss her bag onto the large granite island in the adjacent kitchen. A door to the left led into a shining bathroom nuzzled between two bedrooms. Impersonal art hung on every wall of the fully furnished home. While nothing fancy, it was a comfortable space.
He turned and looked at her
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