Читать книгу A Ford in the River - Charles Rose - Страница 9

Uncle Walton was still on the telephone. Danny Bledsoe would have to wait awhile before he could talk to his uncle about his car. He had come here right after the accident, to his uncle’s paint and body shop. He wouldn’t take the car to the trailer, not with the front end bashed in. His stepfather, Slade Futral, would be there. Slade had started in on the bourbon by now; he was engrossed in “The Price is Right.” The ladies stroking the new car, the washers and dryers, the console TV’s, that was exciting for Slade, not the mangled metal in the front end of Danny’s car.

“Just bring me one hundred dollars cash. If you haven’t got it, I’ll settle for sixty. No I’m not going to make it forty. I’m not that generous, Danny.”

Danny fidgeted in the armchair that had been his father’s, trying to make up his mind if he could get his uncle to come down to fifty. His father would sit in it watching football games, the springs creaking as he reached for a beer. Danny missed seeing his father’s boots, on the carpet beside the footstool. His mother had dumped the footstool. Uncle Walton had gotten the armchair when his mother moved into the trailer with Slade. She wanted new things in the trailer. She had an exercise bike, a little present from Slade Futral. You could stand to lose a few pounds, Lorraine, but his mother never used it. And when Lorraine refused to use it today, when Lorraine refused to get slim and trim, Slade put the exercise bike out with the trash. It sat out for anyone to steal. Slade didn’t know Danny had stolen it, taken it away and pawned it. Put money in my pocket, Slade.

Uncle Walton finally hung up. Pursed lips, freckled arms and face and neck, eyes off at something besides Danny, something distant, not worth getting but worth looking at tolerantly to pass the time. What can we do for you, Danny?

Danny had bashed in the front end of his car, rear-ending this lady’s station wagon. He couldn’t drive with one headlight. He couldn’t open the hood of the car. Uncle Walton said he had to get on the telephone, locate a header. Uncle Walton was calling used part shops. No header for that Pontiac, Danny. They stopped making them fifteen years ago. He’d keep trying, come back this afternoon. Uncle Walton could put in a headlight, chop out half the header.

His mother was vacuuming the trailer. Last weekend Slade had beat her up and stomped off to Knott’s Tavern. She had a black eye again, puffy lips. She ran the machine up and down the wall-to-wall, pennies clicking along the vacuum tube. The feathered dirt stayed where it was, no matter how many ups and downs she did. Danny had to pick up after her. Her ups and downs moved on—to the shared-with-Slade tiny bedroom, where the action was, where the price was right. Taut cord, forgot to move the plug, just thought she could stretch the cord forever like the fat lady’s bulging girdle, the long right arm of Plastic Man. Danny was out on the patio when the police car pulled up. You saw what happened. That I did, sir. Clear case of spouse abuse this time, but his mother had still taken the bastard back. And Slade had come back, dragged his sorry ass back in the rain after lying out drunk in the front yard.

Slade had tracked mud on the carpet, untied his boots in the kitchen. His mother was turning away from the stove, putting one hand on her puffy lips. She did what she’d done for his father, pulled Slade’s boots off, set them on newspaper. There wasn’t anything Danny could do.

Uncle Walton turned in his swivel chair. He gripped his eyes on you, fixed you in the armchair.

“How’s your mama doing?”

Danny felt something go slack in his jaw. “You know how she’s doing?”

“Every time I been by to see her she’s gone.”

“You must not have been by lately. She was working at Piggly Wiggly days. Try coming to see her at night sometime.”

“I’m not about to do that. No, Danny. Not as long as Slade’s still around. I know Slade’s car when I see it.”

“You’re family. You could help her.”

“Lorraine made her own bed, Danny. There’s nothing I can do for her.”

“She could go to your place if you’d take her.”

Uncle Walton looked straight at him. “Dee wouldn’t like it. She’s got little Ed and Winona and me. That’s four. You three would make seven. We couldn’t get you all in the trailer. Five’s top. Maybe six. We could take you and little Ben, but not Lorraine. Dee won’t put up with her drinking.”

“She only does it because of Slade.”

“She’s been doing it for too long now.”

The off-in-the distance look was back, Uncle Walton pondering something he would never actually get mixed up in himself. “The only way Lorraine stops drinking is Slade moves out on her. But Slade, he likes it where he is. He isn’t about to get out of her life. Not unless he got cut or got shot, and that just isn’t going to happen.”

Uncle Walton’s right hand was swinging out. He let it fall on Danny’s shoulder. “Don’t you do anything rash, Danny. You go after Slade, you’ll regret it.” No, kill Slade, you get a medal, but Uncle Walton’s right hand stayed where it was. “You got a gun or a knife, I’d stash ’em somewhere. Somewhere you can’t get at ’em.”

He didn’t have any weapon to get at. But he’d be getting one pretty soon now. Uncle Walton didn’t know this. Uncle Walton was looking to have his lunch pretty soon. He let his hand slide off Danny’s shoulder. It was time for Danny to move on.

“I’ll have to charge you for the header. If I find one, which isn’t likely. And a headlight will cost you twelve bucks. I won’t charge you for labor this time.”

“I can pay, Uncle Walton.”

“Not this time, Danny.”

Out of Uncle Walton’s paint and body shop, Danny crossed the road to Golden Acres. He stopped off at number nine. The sign on the door said disaster area.

Billy Hudmon was cleaning his twelve-gauge, running an oil patch through the barrels. He had parked himself in front of the door, the shotgun canted between his fat knees. Pull out the stock, push in the barrel, cold muzzle kissing his goat beard, pull wires attached to the trigger. Coroner’s verdict—suicide Slade. Billy Hudmon pulled out the ramrod. He set ramrod and oil patch between his legs, replaced the oil patch with another.

“This shotgun isn’t for sale.”

“You sure?”

“I told you it isn’t for sale.”

“I can pay.”

“How much can you pay?”

“Eighty-five, maybe ninety-five.”

He had the hundred and fifty for the exercise bike. Cross the state line into Georgia, head on south for the Florida line. He’d have Slade in the trunk, packed in ice. Ice you down, Slade, take you south.

“Come back in two hours. Bring cash,” Billy said.

“Why not now? Why wait?”

“Read the sign. I can’t let you in here right now.”

Another sign in one window—ex-alcoholic for fifty-three weeks. Last week it had read fifty-two weeks. Billy Hudmon was drinking a Budweiser. He hadn’t gotten around to taking the sign down yet.

“What kind of disaster are we talking about? Hurricane hit you? Tornado?”

“It’s Lou Ann. She’s the disaster.” Danny heard something crash inside. Billy Hudmon pulled out another Budweiser from a cooler without a top to it. He opened it and drank deep. “Lou Ann’s mightily pissed off at me.”

“Then why doesn’t she leave?”

“She thinks I’m the one who’s going to leave. And that I am, for two hours. Soon as I clean this shotgun, I’m going to put this mother in my truck and drive down to my watering hole.”

“You got another gun you could sell me?”

“I have a Colt .45 I can sell you.”

“How much?”

“How much you willing to pay?”

“How big a thirst you got, Billy?”

Case of Jim Beam worth, but Danny didn’t have the money for that. Ninety-nine fifty was the least Billy Hudmon would take.

“You can have it for ninety-nine fifty. You come back I’ll have it for you.”

Danny moved on up the road, toward the plastic pink flamingo in the front yard of their trailer. His brother Ben’s dirt bike was missing. Lorraine was in the bedroom with Slade. She must not have known he was around because he didn’t advertise it anymore, his comings and goings, not with Slade there. Danny’s guitar case was missing. His Penthouse Forums were missing. Where was little Ben, little Ben’s dirt bike? Danny picked up the Yamaha, cheapest guitar you can buy, man. The steel strings resisted his efforts to chord. He laid the guitar on the bunk bed, twanged the E string, out of tune. Through the dusty slats of the venetian blinds, he watched a squirrel make a leap for the bird feeder. Lorraine kept on trying to feed the birds, but the squirrels got most of the action. Danny was out in a flash with his BB pistol, in the heat sifting off the pines. He took aim for the left eye, pumped BB’s into the eyeball. One spattered, jellied squirrel eye for your dinner tonight, big Slade. Here let me put some on your plate.

Danny dropped the dead squirrel in the garbage can. Its good eye stayed in his mind for a little while. The sparrows were back on the feeder. Cardinals and jays would succeed the sparrows. The big boys, grackles and cow birds, would come later, take over for awhile.

Slade’s supersensitive radar had picked up on where the dead squirrel was. Slade paid him a little visit. First thing, Slade picked up the Yamaha and put a boot into the sound box.

“How many times have I told you, you take them squirrels out to the woods?” Slade cuffed him, rattled his jaw. “Your mama she don’t want to see dead squirrels. She don’t want to know about dead squirrels.”

Slade told you how much he hated a goddamned stinking garbage can—bits of slithering fat, spoiled meat, dead putrefying tomcats. The BB pistol was no longer yours. From now on Slade would take care of the squirrels. In two more hours, in two days tops, Slade would be ancient history.

Danny took the squirrel to the woods in a Kmart bag. He followed a path that led to the creek where his father would take him when he was five. They were living in a house then, on the other side of the woods. His father would sit down with him. His father would play the harmonica awhile. They’d sit on one of the rotting logs and look down at the creek awhile. There was a log bridge and they would sit on it, let their feet hang towards the water. His father would play the harmonica, one song, “The Streets of Laredo.” That was the song his father liked most. Danny wanted to learn the song on the guitar, but now he didn’t have a guitar. He had learned it on the harmonica.

The weight of the squirrel, a dead thing now, made him consider dropping it anywhere. But he thought if he dropped it in the creek it would foul the creek for others. That way they would be kept away. He wished his father had been put in the creek. He would have liked to have had his father cremated. He’d have taken the ashes to the creek, in the helmet his father wore on the line trucks. The bright yellow helmet would be in the garage, with his father’s power tools, shotguns, and fishing rods. You ever get hold of a hot line, Danny, you will be blown to kingdom come. Slade had gotten rid of the helmet.

Little Ben was already there. Dirt bikes lay on their sides like some sort of parody of languor. Little Ben sat on the log bridge. His pants were around his ankles. Little Ben’s little friends were jerking off. Penthouse Forums were still in the guitar case. Jerk-offs! Danny was swinging the squirrel. He heaved the squirrel after the dirt bikes. He groped for the C harmonica. It was buried under a crumbling log, lichened, almost a part of the soil. Light slanted through the tall pines; bright pennies peppered the creek. He had to open his knife and pry loose the dirt that had collected inside the mouth holes. He held it, the harmonica, put it slowly to his mouth. In and out, blow notes and draw notes, bending the draw notes, good sound. He imagined he was his father. His father was playing for him. He was playing “The Streets of Laredo,” a certain young cowboy I happened to see.

Uncle Walton hadn’t finished repairing the car, but Billy Hudmon had a gun for him. disaster area had been replaced with a sign that said a man’s home is his castle.

Colt .45 automatic—you can have it for ninety-nine fifty. The door to the trailer was open once he counted out the money. The welcome mat draped on the concrete block welcomed Danny, a paying guest. Inside, Lou Ann was sprawled on the couch. Billy opened a Budweiser before he showed him the gun.

“This piece weighs a ton when you fire it.”

There was another path from Billy’s trailer, through the woods to the creek. Danny wasn’t willing to go that far and Billy Hudmon wasn’t able to. Billy Hudmon handed Danny a clip and showed him how to load the clip. With the heel of his left hand, he shot the bolt, flicked the safety off with the flange of his thumb.

He put the beer bottle in the fork of a tree. Danny gripped the .45 with a two-handed grip. He put pressure on the trigger, but the trigger wouldn’t give. He had to use both forefingers to pull the trigger. The kick knocked his hands up, deafening.

“Let me show you how it’s done.”

Beer breath, Billy’s sweat in his face, Billy stepping around behind you, leaning around you to grip your left hand, goat beard scratching the back of your neck, but you could take that, his body, the smell of him, his hands cupping yours like a slimy toad. “You got to keep putting on pressure slow. Keep your elbows locked. Let the recoil bring the weapon back.”

Bark spattered off the fork of the tree.

Billy stepped back, let Billy take the .45, let Billy demonstrate his marksmanship. The third shot shattered the bottle.

“Now you see how it’s done.” Billy held out the .45; he had to get close to take it from him. The box of cartridge clips, he took that too.

After Billy went back to his trailer, Danny followed the path to the creek. He pushed back the log and laid the .45 down without looking at the harmonica. He set the box of clips beside the .45.

He picked up the car a little later. Uncle Walton had done the best he could do. The front end had half a header, the other half twisted metal like someone with half of his face gouged out. The right headlight stared back at him, the signal lights hanging down like an ear. You could put your hand on the radiator. His car was parked all by itself, in back of Uncle Walton’s paint and body shop. He had walked all the way from the trailer.

Uncle Walton was on the telephone. He was talking to Dee, yes I’ll be there Dee, looking off at the paint on the wall.

How many times do I have to tell you get rid of that goddamned piece of junk? I don’t want to see it anymore, Slade had said to him. And you take them dead squirrels out to the woods. He saw Slade coming out of Knott’s Tavern. Wait till he’s about to get in his car. Put the pressure on slow, squeeze the trigger. Head shot, blow out his goddamned brains. Uncle Walton, still talking to Dee.

Uncle Walton wouldn’t have anything to say to him because he wouldn’t know he had a gun. Watch where you’re driving next time. Don’t head south to Florida yet. Don’t do it, Danny, I’m telling you! Keep talking, you’re just wasting your breath. Danny stared at the blood in the water cooler, blood squirting out into paper cups, Slade’s blood, his goddamned stepfather’s. Pipe blood in from the bathtub, from Slade’s body, knees up, throat slashed big. Little snort out of the cooler, Slade. Count Dracula’s premium brew for you.

Danny was parked outside of Knott’s Tavern. He watched a line crew moving a hot line. There were two bucket trucks, a bucket for each lineman. Rubber hoses sheathed the secondaries, clothespinned rubber blankets encased the insulators. Knock you to kingdom come. The linemen worked deliberately, aloft, aloof in their buckets. They were moving the line to a new pole, numeral plates flush with the secondaries catching bits of unapproachable light.

He waited another hour. The linemen tied in the primaries, came down, the elbowed lifts folding in on themselves, setting the linemen on the pavement again. They peeled off their tool belts and hung them up on a rack in the back of the truck. The ground man taped up a coil of copper wire, rolled up the rubber blankets, stashed the hoses, gathered up pulley lines. One lineman went to the water cooler embedded in one side of the truck. Clear cold water for this good man, for all the good men in the line crew.

That night they got into it about the goddamned squirrel with its throat slit with his mother’s carving knife. All they could do now was drink and fight. His mother burned the frozen pizza. Dragging it charred from the oven, she stepped on little Ben’s skateboard. She skidded across the linoleum. The pizza sailed up off the cookie sheet, splattered in Slade’s pig face, his ape hands thickened with cheese, blackened anchovies, tomato splotches, then Slade’s pig face behind the network of hands. Danny was swinging the frying pan, trying to get to Slade’s pig face. He felt it wrenched away in Slade’s big hands. He heard the frying pan clang against the stove. Something crashed in his head and he went down.

When he came to Slade wasn’t there anymore. His mother couldn’t get up. Bits of cheese were stuck to his mother’s face. She put her hands on pink rollers. Danny breathed in the acrid smoke. He went to the door and opened it, letting warm air in to thin out the smoke. He was running now, down the path to the creek. The creek was overlaid with shadow. He couldn’t help his mother anymore. He pushed the log back, picked up the harmonica, puckered his lips on a mouth hole, blowing a sustained, soothing note. The .45 and the box of cartridges were where he’d left them, beside the harmonica now. His fingers touched metal. He would leave the harmonica under the log, where he had kept it all these years.

It was dark when he left the creek. He went to his car first and put the .45 in the glove compartment. Then he went to his room in the trailer. He got a suitcase out of the closet. He emptied his dresser drawers on the bunk, picked out some things to take with him, left other things, including his baseball cards. He was on his way out when his mother came in. She was holding an ice pack against her jaw. She held a bottle of sherry pressed to one of her breasts, about half-full, with a cork in it. She still wore rollers in her hair.

“You’re leaving me.”

“You can come with me.”

“I have to take care of little Ben.”

“I’ll take both of you to Uncle Walton’s. Tonight. He’s willing to have you.”

“Dee isn’t willing, you know that.”

“You stop drinking she might have you.”

“I can’t do that, Danny.”

“All right, don’t do it. You can stay here, but I’m going.”

Her face leaned into the ice pack. She set the ice pack down on Danny’s bed. She uncorked the bottle of sherry. “You can’t go. You’re all I have. I lost your father. Now I’m losing you.”

He had lost his mother a long time ago. He remembered her, how she was before Slade, with her hair in rollers then like now. It was that way when the telephone rang, while she put on her uniform, fixed her face. She asked Danny to answer the telephone please. He remembered the telephone on the wall, something brown and thick then, a blotch on the wall like a silverfish against the blistered paint and loose plaster, yet thinking maybe he’d hear something good like winning the lottery, like getting rich, like his mother not having to work anymore but his father maybe he should work, be a lineman, but not in bad weather, he thought, work part-time, not on a hot line, he thought, just be up there in your chariot looking proud and tall and good.

It was Tom Brown, his father’s foreman. I would like to speak to your mother, please.

Not his mother but Tom Brown in his mind. A tall man who kept his back straight. His father used to do him but not to his face. Striding in from the kitchen, his father stuck out his Tom Brown jaw. He looked up at the ceiling fixture, the way Tom Brown looked up at a spot where a transformer would be hoisted up, or up at the crossbeam not yet in place, the bright wire not yet tied in to the glossy new spool insulators, or looked down to the spot on the ground where the new pole would go, the hole not dug, the posthole diggers unused yet, the cant hooks not yet clawing the pine, the pikes not biting wood yet. His father would stretch his lips in imitation of Tom Brown’s distended grin. Here’s where the work is boys, his father would say Tom Brown would say. That’s all Tom Brown ever says, his father would say.

His mother was standing close to him. “You’ll be hearing from me. I’ll be all right,” he said.

He leaned out to kiss his mother’s lips. She kissed him goodbye, she held him close. This is goodbye, this is it.

Little Ben in the passenger seat, his white face set, was waiting for him in the car. “I’m coming with you, Danny.”

“You can’t come with me,” Danny said. He was going where Ben couldn’t follow him, already knowing he would have to pay, already seeing the time he would do like a long road without an end.