CHAPTER 4
HOME

WHEN JUDE PULLED up against the front lawn of her childhood home, she was still fuming from her run-in with Miguel O'Hara. It was always the hot ones that were also arrogant and apparently, liked to almost cause car accidents. Jude tapped her fingers on the wheel, willing herself to get out of the car, but couldn't stop herself from fixating on their conversation. 

Miguel O'Hara. 

Even his name was hot. She released an irritated grumble. 

Fuck that guy.

Jude looked to her right, finally taking in her parent's home – her old home. It was still as small as ever, which meant her father never built an addition like he said he would when she was a teenager. (Jude was definitely going to be sleeping in her old room turned guest room, which was basically closet-sized.) A few roof shingles were lifting on the house, and maroon paint was almost fulling chipped away, revealing the rotting wood underneath. The Louisiana heat had turned their grass a mixture of olive green and yellow, completely dead. Her mother had three little flamingo lawn ornaments out all year long. The paint on them looked like it had washed away over the years, leaving the flamingos close to white. Around them were tiny cherub statues, as well as a tall garden statue of Jesus with his arms spread out, except part of his left arm had fallen off somehow and laid on the grass beside a flamingo. And then, there was her father's prized cross on the door, which was passed down to him from generation to generation. The cross was huge, almost half the height of the front door, and had a knocker attached to the middle of it.

She sighed, running a hand over her face, and wondered if there was still time to back out of her decision. But then the front door was opening, and her father walked out with a huge smile on his face. The same smile he would always address his congregation with.

"Willodean!" He called as she stepped out of the car. Her expression was flat, still trying to feign a smile. "You didn't say you were coming, dear. But deep inside, I knew. I prepared the guest room for you and everything."

"Hey, Dad," she said dryly, accepting his hug when he approached her. Deacon held onto her for longer than she wanted, squeezing her shoulders as her cheek was pressed against his bicep. "Sorry for not calling first."

Deacon tsked. "Like I said, I knew. Or in reality, He knew and gave me a heads up." He leaned back, admiring his daughter's features, and patted her shoulders. "Let me help you with your bags."

She had no problem accepting that suggestion. Jude slipped from his hold and popped the trunk open. Her father looked down at her two large duffle bags, and then her tiny suitcase full of toiletries. Jude grabbed her laptop case and pushed the two cardboard boxes full of old photo albums and family stuff to the back of the truck. "You sure did pack a lot, Willodean," Deacon muttered, struggling to haul out one of the duffles. "Planning on moving here?" He chuckled.

Her mouth remained in a tight line. She didn't dare tell her parents that had been evicted from her apartment and she was essentially without a home right now. But she would have no problem finding one again once she finished her piece and got it to the Times editor. Just as she planned. "I just ... packed the essentials," she replied, taking the second duffle in her other hand. She could see why he was struggling; these were both one-half of her closet. Favorite blazer included.

As they carried her bags into the house, Jude managed to knock down one of the flamingos with her massive duffle. She kicked it into a dying bush before someone could notice it had fallen. Once inside, her father set her bags by the door and Jude scanned the small corridor. They hadn't moved around the photos on the wall, or the Bible quotes her family members had crotched. They all still hung in the same place, a coating of dust on their frames. The murky yellow walls of the house made at least a hundred memories come back to her, and she swallowed them down before she could reminisce. The short corridor by the door led straight to the flimsy screen door that was always flapping in the wind, overlooking her parents' tiny backyard. They now had two beach chairs sitting in the tall, yellowing grass outside. Right next to the screen door was the kitchen, and her mother's circular dining room table was placed in the middle. The table was so old that the sides could fold up to create a square tabletop; Jude remembered her saying once that it was from the 70s. Just past the kitchen to the right was the single bathroom in the house, her old bedroom, and her parents' room. Through the cracked door, Jude could see that her parents still had the same bed frame that had been gifted to them on their wedding day from her mother's parents – another relic from the 70s.

Jude looked to her left, spotting the living room. For most of her life, they were adamant about keeping their boxy Sony television set from 1996. Since she moved out, they apparently upgraded, but only to a longer, slightly less boxy RCA TV from 2008. She was surprised it still worked. All the shades were pulled down, per usual, allowing the TV to be the only light in the room, despite there being a bunch of vintage lamps placed around. The couch looked new, probably bought with money given to them by the congregation, and her mother sat in her favorite leather armchair. Her parents owned two, and her father sometimes liked to sit in the other one. But the chair on the left, directly in front of the TV, had always been her mother's chair. It was where she took her naps when she'd been too doped up to cook dinner.

Jude met her mother's eyes. The bright light from the Full House rerun on TV highlighted Bonnie-Mae's freckled, aged face. She looked healthier now, almost like how she looked when Jude was a toddler, except with more wrinkles. The last time Jude saw her, she was all frail with deep-set hollows in her face from the opiates. There was more definition in her cheeks now, lines etched near her mouth from age.

"Hi, Ma." Jude waved her hand without much of an expression.

Bonnie-Mae plucked a joint from the table beside her and lit it. Jude noticed then the distinct smell of marijuana floating around the living room. There was also an old glass ashtray by her mother's mug of peppermint tea. She guessed Deacon had finally gotten over his idea that marijuana was created by the devil.

"Willodean," her mother said as a form of greeting. Bonnie-Mae's voice was raspier than usual, coupled with a deep Southern accent. She also had a wet cough, probably from smoking for however long. Jude was starting to get something similar from her Lucky Strikes. "How nice of you to finally grace us with your presence," she added, taking a puff from the joint and turning back to the television. Jude wasn't sure if it was just a trick of the eye, but when Bonnie-Mae opened her mouth, she was pretty sure her mother was missing a tooth now.

Pulling her attention away, Deacon took a step forward and hugged her again. Jude was stunned for a moment, and then patted her father's shoulder blades. "I can't believe you're home, Willodean. It's been so long." He leaned back, and Jude did her best not to cringe at her birth name. It held so much weight; it had roots in this place. "I'm so happy you're here, even under these grave circumstances."

Jude feigned a smile. "Me too, Dad."

"Wow ..." Deacon eyed her. "Your accent really is almost gone. But I can still hear a little bit of your old twang underneath. Come on now, you must be thirsty. We got fresh lemonade."

She followed her father to the kitchen, stealing one last glance in her mother's direction. At the very least, she was glad Deacon noticed that a good part of her past self was gone. She wasn't the same daughter that attended every Sunday service or swore she'd never step foot out of Louisiana. She was better, healthier, almost thirty. No longer a little Southern girl.

Deacon took out two glasses from the cabinet and then grabbed a vintage pitcher from the fridge. He poured lemonade into one glass and handed it to her, before pouring himself another. When Jude brought it to her lips, she almost smiled. There was nothing like a cold glass of fresh lemonade or sweet tea on a hot day. Her family had always made the best of both.

"I'm surprised you were able to find time to come on down here," he said after taking a sip of his lemonade. "You sounded real busy on the phone. You still work for ...?"

"The Times," she replied abruptly, not hesitating to lie. "Yup, still work there." The grip on her glass went tight with anxiety. "But I was hoping to take some time down here to write. I think I want to make a career pivot, with the Times' help. I'm hoping being at home will help me write a piece with ... heart," she cringed at the last word.

Deacon leaned against the kitchen counter. "Well, if there's anyone who can do it, I know it's you. You were always good at everything, Willodean. Remember when you used to go around family parties with my old film camera, taking pictures of everyone? I didn't even show you how to use it, and you quickly figured out how it worked."

Jude smiled wistfully, hiding her expression behind the glass in her hand. She did remember that. She decided to study photography in college because of that film camera.

Her father sighed and looked to where he placed his hand on the counter, tapping his fingers. "So I ... we – your mother and I – have already made the arrangements for Uncle Abel. It's about a week and a half from today. We'll have the wake first, and then the next day will be the funeral."

They both heard shoes scuffing in the kitchen. Jude's head spun to face her mother, who was slowly padding into the kitchen, dragging her slippers over the linoleum floor. Bonnie-Mae eyed Jude for a moment and then reached into the fridge to grab a beer. Without saying a word, she cracked the cap off with a bottle opener magnet and made her way back to her chair in the living room. It was 2 PM.

Once Bonnie-Mae was out of earshot, her father whispered, "I've been going easy on her. I know you two had a falling out, but ... you should do the same." Jude attempted not to narrow her eyes; it had been more than just a falling out. Her mother had practically disowned her.

"Deaths in the family hit her hard," he continued and then chuckled softly to himself. "She's been upset longer than I have, and Uncle Abel was my brother. We gotta give her time to grieve."

"I ... get that," Jude said, struggling to continue an already awkward conversation. "Driving down here for the past couple of days, it got me thinking about old times. I had so many memories with him, and to think that he could just be gone ..." She shook her head. "I miss him, even though I don't know him like I used to. I miss the memory of him."

Her father exhaled heavily, glancing at his hand again. She shouldn't prod, but ...

"Have you ..." Jude finished the last of her lemonade and placed the glass in the sink. "Have you or Aunt Peg found out any other information about his death? I mean, you said on the phone, 'We all know he was murdered,' and it seems impossible for a killer to be running around such a small town like this. What motive could a murderer possibly have to kill Uncle Abel?"

Deacon shook his head. "It's all being investigated by the local authorities. I don't know much, but ... it was Aunt Peg that found him." He then lowered his voice to a whisper. "It was about nine PM at night. Peg was watching one of her shows and Abel took their little poodle out in the woods behind the house before they went to bed. Twenty minutes later, she says she hears the dog barking at the porch door. When she went to go check it out, only the dog had run back to the porch, no Abel in sight. So she went out with the dog into the woods, and that's when she found him. He had been slumped against a big oak tree, looked like his throat had been ripped out. Peg says she blacked out everything that happened after that. I imagined she saw a lot more blood than what she relayed."

"And that's all you know?" Jude arched a brow. "No motive? No nothing?"

"For right now, that's all the information we've gathered." He then waved the issue with his hand. "The proper authorities are figuring it out now, Willodean. Don't fret. It's only been a week; they'll find the sick, twisted individual who took my brother's life in due time."

With the way cops act these days, Jude thought, we'll be lucky if they investigate this for a solid week before putting a halt to it.

"Things will get better, Willodean. He will set it right." Her father then motioned for her to follow him, ending the conversation quicker than she hoped. "Come now. Let me help take your bags to your room. It hasn't changed since you left it, but I still change the sheets every time we change ours."

Working together, the two of them trudged the short distance to her old bedroom with all her bags in tow. Deacon walked in first, setting one of her large duffles and her toiletry suitcase by the tiny suitcase at the end of the room. He wasn't joking – the room really hadn't changed. The closet was empty, of course, from her taking all her clothes when she moved out. But the room was still as small as ever, probably about 9 feet long and 6 feet wide. The walls were painted the same muted pink. Her old twin bed took up at least half the space. The door almost hit the mattress when they swung it open. They kept the old vintage bed frame that her mother had gotten from a deceased aunt, the brass on the rods getting rusty at the corners. Her small wicker storage drawer was still situated near the closet, and that's where she set her laptop bag when Deacon finally moved out of the way so she could step inside. Her bedside table matched the drawer unit, with an old fairy lamp and Holy Bible placed on top of it. Two people could hardly fit in this room, let alone one. The clean sheets they had put on her bed were from when she was a kid. They were Cinderella-themed, all different shades of blue with a glass slipper printed on the pillowcases.

Jude wiped the sweat off her hands onto her shorts, scanning the room for any other details. "Would you like some time to get settled?" Her father asked, and her attention was seized. She nodded quickly. "Great. Shout if you need anything. I'll start dinner soon and tell you when it's ready." He then walked up to her and kissed her on the forehead, like he used to when she was young. "So happy you're back with us, Willodean."

She finally let out a sigh she'd been holding in as soon as he left the room. Her head turned so she could look out the square window right by the end of her bed. The brown paint around the frame was chipping, revealing gray underneath. The backyard outside her window was as sparse as ever, even with the tall grass that her father clearly hadn't cut in a while, and she half expected to see two red eyes staring back at her from within the trees. She tsked at her imagination and flopped her back onto the old bed. It creaked underneath her.

It was going to feel strange sleeping in the house she grew up in again, in the same bed, in the same sheets. The air still reeked of mothballs and peppermint tea, and now a hint of marijuana. This is a good decision, she told herself. I have to trust in my gut that this will all work out. Laying down on the mattress with her eyes shut, it only took Jude a few minutes to fall asleep. She had been driving for so many days, sleeping in so many uncomfortable places – and while this bed was old and creaky, it was once hers. She had no problem finding peace in her little room by herself.

Until she dreamed about those chilling, red eyes again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know this was a loooooong, drawn-out chapter of just jude arriving home, but I really wanted to set the scene of how her family acts and the house that she grew up in. it really sets the tone for everything going forward! I love getting into the nitty-gritty of how old houses look, especially in this fic. each location in FALSE GOD has so much character and really ads to the eerie feeling of it all.

but don't fret!! more miguel in the next chapter hehe