Carnal Innocence

Marvella’s heart flutter. Yeah, he’d come back, with twenty-dollar bills bulging in his pockets. He’d cruise on back into town in his classic ’62 Caddy—one of his fleet of cars—duded up in an
I
-talian suit, and richer than the Longstreets.
    And there would be Marvella, thin and pale from pining away for him. She’d be standing on the corner in front of Larsson’s Dry Goods, clutching her hands between her soft, pillowy breasts, and tears would be streaming down her face at the sight of him.
    And when she fell at his feet, sobbing and wailing and telling him how sorry she was for being such anawful bitch and driving him away from her, he might— just might—forgive her.
    The fantasy lulled him. As the sun brightened to ease the stinging air and danced lightly on the dun-colored water of the creek, he began to contemplate the physical aspects of their reunion.
    He’d take her to Sweetwater—having purchased the lovely old plantation from the Longstreets when they’d fallen on hard times. She’d gasp and shiver at his good fortune. Being a gentleman, and a romantic, he’d sweep her up the long, curving stairs.
    Since Bobby Lee hadn’t been above the first floor in Sweetwater, his imagination shifted into high gear. The bedroom he carried the trembling Marvella into resembled a hotel suite in Vegas, which was Bobby Lee’s current idea of class.
    Heavy red draperies, a heart-shaped bed as big as a lake, carpet so thick he had to wade through it. Music was playing. Something classic, he thought. Bruce Springsteen or Phil Collins. Yeah, Marvella got all gooey over Phil Collins.
    Then he’d lie her down on the bed. Her eyes would be wet as he kissed her. She’d be telling him again and again what a fool she’d been, how much she loved him, how she was going to spend the rest of her life making him happy. Making him her king.
    Then he’d run his hands down over those incredible white, pink-tipped breasts, squeezing just a little, the way she liked it.
    Her soft thighs would spread apart, her fingers would dig into his shoulders while she made that growly sound back in her throat. And then …
    His line tugged. Blinking, Bobby Lee sat up, wincing a little when his jeans bunched against the bulge at his crotch. Distracted by the hard-on, he flicked the fat fish out of the water, where it wriggled in the silvering sun. With his hands clumsy and slippery with arousal, he thumped his catch into the reeds.
    Imagining himself about to pop it to Marvella had him tangling his line in the reeds. He hauled himself up, swearing a little at his carelessness. Since a good fishingline was as valuable as the fish it caught, Bobby Lee waded into the reeds and began to set it to rights.
    The perch was still flopping. He could hear its wet struggles. Grinning, he gave the line a quick tug. It resisted, and he muttered a half-hearted oath.
    He kicked a rusted Miller can aside, took another step into the high, cool grass. He slipped, his foot sliding on something wet. Bobby Lee Fuller went down on his knees. And found himself face-to-face with Arnette Gantrey.
    Her look of surprise mirrored his—wide eyes, gaping mouth, white white cheeks. The perch lay quivering with its last breaths beneath her naked, mutilated breasts.
    He saw she was dead—stone dead—and that was bad enough. But it was the blood, frosty pools of it, soaking into the damp ground, turning her limp, peroxided hair into something dark and crusty, drying hideously from where it had spilled out of dozens of jagged holes in her flesh, necklacing her throat where a long, smiling gash spread—it was the blood that forced the harsh, animal sounds out of him and had him scrambling back on his hands and knees. He didn’t realize the sounds came from him. But he did realize that he was kneeling in her blood.
    Bobby Lee struggled to his feet just in time to lose his breakfast grits all over his new black Converse Chucks.
    Leaving his perch, his line, and a good portion of his youth in the bloody reeds, he ran for Innocence.

c·h·a·p·t·e·r 1
    S ummer, that vicious green bitch, flexed her sweaty muscles and flattened Innocence, Mississippi. It didn’t take much. Even before the War Between the States, Innocence had been nothing but a dusty fly-speck on the map. Though the soil was good for farming—if a man could stand the watery heat, the floods, and the capricious droughts—Innocence wasn’t destined to prosper.
    When the railroad tracks were