#dory walker

Everyone in town knew that John Edward Graves was not a nice man. 

To call John mean would be an understatement. Everyone in town knew John was a cruel and vindictive drunkard with a hair-trigger temper, along with the strength to back that temper up. They saw his mountainous form lumber into town and instinctively stepped out of his way. People kept their heads down and their voices low. They were especially quiet when they found the courage to whisper out the rumours of how he treated his poor quiet wife. 

Everyone in town knew that John Graves was not a nice man, and no one knew it better than his poor quiet wife, Theodosia Walker. 

She’d fallen into the marriage when she was young and dumb and convinced that, even if the rumours about his rowdiness were true, she could most certainly fix him. After all, Theodosia could fix most anything she’d set her mind to fixing. She’d tend to him in the same way she tended to her pretty little garden: with care and love and plenty of singing. She’d read once that singing to plants was supposed to help them grow. She’d sung to her plants ever since. 

But singing to her husband, well, that had never really helped. As a result, Theodosia didn’t really sing much anymore. 

The simple truth of things was that there weren’t nothin’ in this world that could ever really fix a man like John Edward Graves, because he was the kind of fella that wasn’t willing to be fixed.

———

When John Graves went missing after the worst thunderstorm of the season, the other barflies assumed he’d never made it home. He’d been at Donovan’s Pub into the early hours of the night, only leaving when the owner forced him out. Any offer of a taxi ride made to him was thoroughly refused. John had climbed into his beat up old piece of shit of a truck and took off into the night, never once looking behind him. 

John’s truck was found on the side of the road the next morning. The sheriff had it towed on account of it obstructing traffic. Everyone assumed that John had gotten lost on his way home, what with how drunk he was when he left. He’d probably tried to take a short cut through the woods. He’d probably stumble his way out when he’d sobered up. 

After the mandatory 48 hours of waiting, Mrs Theodosia Walker-Graves went down to the station to file a missing person report. The sheriff bought his dogs out to the site where the truck had been found. From there, they followed the scent until it hit the brook that ran through the woods. The scent trail went cold in the water. The dogs couldn’t pick it up again after that. 

When the sheriff informed Mrs Theodosia that her husband had likely fallen into the brook in his drunken stupor, she tearfully accepted his condolences. They both knew well enough that the brook flowed down into the part of the woods where the bears made their dens. They’d be about as likely to find his body as they would a needle in a haystack. 

An empty casket was buried in a lonely plot at the old church, with the headstone bearing the words John Edward Graves, father & husband, 1955 - 1993. As far as the town knew, the storm and his own stupidity had gotten him. In some way, it really did. 

———

The truth of it was this:

That night, John’s truck had broken down on the road home, and he’d been forced to walk the rest of the way. He’d taken his shortcut through the woods, stumbled through the rushing brook, and made it safely to the other side. He’d come up to the house around 3 in the morning. He was drunk, angry, and soaking wet, and right when he stomped onto the front porch, the power went out. 

Dahlia’s screaming started immediately after. The girl, aged only 4, had been terrified of the dark for as long as she’d understood what the dark was. Her little nightlight died with the power, plunging her room into darkness. The following thunder boom woke her up. Fear seized upon her in an instant. 

She’d always screamed when the power went out, always cried and cried and cried until her mama came to calm her down. On that night, her daddy got there first. It was unfortunate for her that her daddy was who he was. 

John Edward Graves was not a man you could show weakness around. 

He had little Dolly by the collar of her nightshirt when Theodosia burst in, pulling her roaring husband off her wailing daughter. Even in the dark of the room, Theodosia could see the way the handprint burned red against her daughter’s pale cheek. She turned on John with all of the rage of a mama bear, and sharply demanded to know what the fuck he did to her girl. 

What John said in that moment was lost to history. It was remembered only in the mind of Theodosia, who still felt fury burn through her like a hot knife through butter when she thought back on it years later. Little Dolly was too young to truly understand what was going on, and her siblings were quite accustomed to blocking their father’s voice out, but Theodosia held on to every word. 

The ensuing fight travelled down the stairs and onto the porch. Most fights ended with John storming off to his truck to get drunk, leaving Theodosia crying silently out front. On that night, however, John was already drunk, and Theodosia was already crying, and the screaming only escalated. 

Theodosia was almost certain she was going to die. 

Somewhere between claps of thunder, John had gotten his hands around her throat. He’d shoved her hard against one of the porch’s oak posts. With each breath she tried to take, the pressure on her windpipe only increased. She struggled and kicked as hard as she could in a desperate attempt to break free. The lightning flashed, John’s grip tightened, and Theodosia was certain she was going to die. 

In the next clap of thunder, Theodosia found herself falling to her knees. Air rushed into her wheezing lungs, knocking her back. She struggled to adjust to her sudden drop. How in the hell had she gotten free?

The answer to her unspoken question came in the form of her son in her peripheral vision. His daddy’s shotgun was held tight in his shaking hands, aimed squarely at his daddy’s chest. John was clutching at his side and howling at her boy like a wounded beast. 

Every name in the book was thrown at the boy with a shotgun in his hands and fear in his eyes. Jack Douglas, JD, her little Dougey, had taken the gun from its mount above the fireplace and blasted his daddy off of his mama. That should have been it. 

That should have been it, but John was still moving. 

With one arm tight to his side, John lunged for JD. When his fist met JD’s face, Theodosia ran. Every instinct screamed for her to turn back and protect her boy. She ignored the urge, instead lunging for the wood chopping block. It was there that she found the hatchet. 

It was old, it was heavy, and it was wickedly sharp. The very hatchet that she’d brought with her from her family’s farm when the newlyweds first moved into their home now brought an end to that marital bliss. As John wrestled JD for the shotgun, Theodosia came up behind him and buried the hatchet in the back of his skull. 

The first strike brought John to his knees, but it did not kill him. The second, when Theodosia managed to wrench the hatchet from his skull and strike him with it again, also did not kill him. Whether or not the third killed him didn’t truly matter. It was far from the final blow. 

Strikes rained down on John’s body, as fast and hard as the pouring rain. Thirteen years of anger and pain rushed from Theodosia. Thirteen years of putting up with the drunk piece of shit she once thought she could fix. Thirteen fucking years, washed away in a stream of blood and rain. It seemed poetic, in retrospect, that JD stopped her on the thirteenth strike. 

“He’s dead, Mama.” JD whispered, coming to kneel next to her in the mud. 

Slowly, gently, he pulled the hatchet from her hands and set it aside. Slowly, gently, he pulled her into a hug. Theodosia buried her face against JD’s shoulder and cried the last of her tears. 

“We’ve gotta bury him.” JD murmured. 

Theodosia pulled away, wiping her eyes on the back of her fist and nodding. “Go make sure your sisters are okay, baby. I’ll handle him.” 

She could almost smile at that. How many times had she spoken that phrase in the last decade? 

“Dory’s got Dolly, they’ll be fine. I ain’t letting you do this alone.” JD replied, taking her hand and squeezing it in his. 

At 13 years old, JD had not yet grown into the strength he would someday come to know. It took a great deal of effort for him to drag the corpse of his father onto the wheelbarrow, and greater effort still to push it into the woods. His mother followed close behind him with two shovels in hand. When they found the best spot possible, she handed the second shovel to her boy and together they started digging. 

Theodosia couldn’t tell you how long they were out there for. Though both were exhausted, neither was willing to take any sort of break. They dug with the same fervour of the first miners in the mountains, pushing and pushing and pushing until the earth threatened to swallow them whole. 

When the grave was finally fully dug, they unceremoniously dumped the body into it. No prayers were said for John Edward. No real tears were shed. They simply started pushing the dirt back into the ground and buried the man who didn’t deserve any further amount of care with regards to his death. When the last mound was patted down, Theodosia dropped to her knees and pressed her palms against the earth.

“Dougey, baby, I need your help.” She murmured, though she didn’t need to. 

JD crouched beside her, placing his hand at the small of her back and letting his energy flow to her. Theodosia’s gifts reached out, drawing seeds to the freshly dug dirt. The grass rose up beneath her fingers, filling back in to match the rest around it. When she pulled away, it was as though the ground had not been disturbed at all. 

“It’s done.” JD whispered. 

“It’s done.” Theodosia echoed. 

By the time they walked home, the blood in the dirt had washed to the bottom of the gathering puddles. The only evidence of the gruesome scene from before was the bloody hatchet and abandoned shotgun, which they collected and brought into the house. The shotgun was returned to its mount above the fireplace, the hatchet was washed and brought back outside, and the exhaustion was finally allowed by the Walkers to set in. 

Before they could return to bed, Theodosia cracked open the pantry and retrieved what was once John Graves’ good whiskey. She poured two small glasses, sliding on across the table and keeping one for herself. 

“You sure, Mama?” JD asked hesitantly. 

Theodosia nodded. “You’re gonna want it, darlin’. It’ll help you go back to sleep. Besides, it ain’t like your daddy can call it his anymore.” 

She raised her glass, clinking it against his. The two didn’t toast to anything in particular. They drank it down quickly before setting the glasses aside and letting themselves breathe. 

“I’m proud of you, baby.” Theodosia whispered, letting her eyes fall shut. 

She felt JD’s hand come to rest over one of hers. “I couldn’t let him hurt you. Not anymore.” 

Theodosia smiled, in spite of everything that had gone down on that night. When she opened her eyes, JD was smiling back at her. 

“Let’s go make sure your sisters are okay.”