Wolf Whistle

by Lewis Nordan

  Cows and gold mines. Cattle drives and stampedes, miners, forty-niners, and my darling Clementine. Coyotes and mesas and motherlodes. He didn’t know much, but west was one thing he did know.

  These were the things Roy Dale thought about in the summertime, and even in the fall, on Saturdays, when rain wasn’t filling up the ditches, and backing up into sewers, and sending big snakes up into the porcelain toilet bowls on the first floors of houses, and making loblollies of every spot of available earth, and even then, sometimes, he thought about these things, like today, this late night, in his room alone in bed, fingering the fletching of an arrow from the quiver the coach let him bring home before practice on Monday morning.

  8

  SOLON WAS leaning down over the steering wheel, trying to see where he was going in all this rain. He was sitting up on the front edge of his seat like a child, trying to keep the El Camino from slipping off in a ditch. The headlights were poking out through the rain, the rain was drumming on the roof and in the truck bed.

  Solon said, “Once we get up to the gravel, we’ll be able to make a little better time, visibility won’t be so bad.”

  They drove on a while longer, in silence.

  Solon said, “I ain’t never driving down this slick durn road again.”

  Then Solon said, “Here we go! Here’s the gravel! All right! Man! I thought we’s lost there for a minute.”

  He pulled the truck up onto the gravel and turned left, headed out into Runnymede.

  He said, “Well, shoot! That’s a relief. Shit far.”

  Solon could lean back into the backrest a little, now that they had made the high road. He could see better, relax a little. The windshield wipers were going zoop zoop zoop.

  Solon said, “I’d done got myself a little tense there for a minute.”

  Solon was able to get up a little speed now, on the better road. The sound of the wet gravel beneath the tires was like bacon sizzling in a frying pan.

  On the better road, Solon didn’t mind taking his hand off the wheel for a couple of seconds. He reached into his back pocket and took out a crumpled white handkerchief and handed it over.

  He said, “It ain’t too durn clean.”

  Solon got to the spillway and stopped. The lights shone across the water, which was high now, on account of the rain. Lake water had covered the road, which was also the high water dam, and was spilling over it into the gum swamp in a long white line of frothy water.

  Solon said, “I wonder can I drive across this durn thing,’

  They sat in the truck, with the motor running. The water poured over the spillway like music. The headlights were like long yellow planks in the darkness, stretched across the spillway to the other side.

  Solon said, “I heard this is a good place to fish, the spillway.”

  Solon waved off the bloody handkerchief.

  He said, “Just keep it.”

  They drove on for a while, across Runnymede.

  He said, “You ever go fishing?”

  Solon imagined fish beneath the dam, silent and silver in the dark.

  He took a breath and let it out. He said, “I’m always thinking I’m going to go fishing sometime myself, and then I don’t.”

  He said, “I seen all them fishing poles back at the house. Uncle, he got plenty of fishing poles, don’t he? What’s Uncle do, cut him some cane poles out in the brake, dry them out in the rafters?”

  Dark night, and the rain kept on drumming on the roof of the El Camino, but Solon thought it wont such a bad night for a drive, for sitting out in a car with a boy and listening to the falling water on the tin roof.

  He said, “What do you reckon your Uncle would charge me for a good fishing pole? You and me, maybe we’ll get together, go fishing some time, what’da you think? Wet us a couple of hooks, you know.”

  Solon reached in his pocket and took out the thousand dollars, the big fat roll of new bills.

  He said, “Reckon that ought to be enough for two fishing poles?” He held it out for inspection.

  He laughed a quiet laugh.

  He said, “This ought to buy us a couple of pretty good poles, oughtn’t it? First-rate fishing poles. Throw in a Prince Albert can full of nightcrawlers to boot, don’t you reckon?”

  Solon rolled down his window and sat for a couple of minutes holding the money. Then he flung the roll of bills out into the wind and fain and rolled the window back up again.

  The bills went every which-away at first, and then the rain sogged them down, out on the road and in the ditch and some of them blew into the spillway and over the dam, and out into the water of the lake.

  He had a second thought, then, so he rolled his window back down, and took the .25 caliber pistol from out the front of his pants and slung it out the window, too, backhand, out in the rain. No telling where it landed, somewhere off the road, someplace, or in the ditch, or out in the field.

  The water was pouring over the dam, making its musical sound, different from the rain on the roof, though that sound was like music, too.

  Solon said, “Do you reckon I could drive across the top of this thing?”

  He rolled his window back up again.

  Solon said, “Trouble is, that spillway current is so durn strong, it’s liable to push this little truck right off in Roebuck Lake.”

  They sat for a while longer without talking.

  He said, “You know what I ought to of did, don’t you? I ought to of insisted that he find that slut wife of his and give me the Cadillac, instead of this candyass contraption. This durn El Camino ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, once the novelty’s done wore off. That’s my own personal opinion.”

  A long time passed, then. Solon looked at the dashboard lights. They were green and comfortable-looking, they made Solon consider that his life was in good order. Good oil pressure. Radiator, not a bit of overheating. Fuel—well. The fuel was a little low, not bad, though. Solon hadn’t thought to check his gas gauge, back at Sims and Hill. He could have told Hydro, “Fill ’er up,” if he’d of thought about it. Look like now he was running a little low, nothing to worry about.

  He said, “You know another thing I never did that I always wanted to? Before I die, I wish I could dig me up some fresh peanuts out the ground and soak them in brine, real salty, you know, boil them good, and then roast them somehow, like on that iron stove in your Auntee’s kitchen. I don’t know why digging up my own fresh peanuts always appealed to me. It’s just one of them durn things.”

  The music of the spillway water in the swamp sounded like soft, faraway plucking on the strings of the guitars of the blues singers on Red’s front porch.

  Solon said, “I’m pretty much committed to crossing this durn thing. I ought to just go on and do it. I don’t know what I’m waiting on.”

  He laughed again, his soft laugh.

  He kept looking out into the darkness, along the plane made by the headlights, across the spillway, towards a barn that was still too far away to see.

  Solon said, “See, I always kind of thought I would take my boy fishing, someday, the one what got burnt up. Two cane poles with bream hooks, cat-gut line, and red-and-white plastic bobbers, little piece of lead shot. Maybe dig some worms, trap some roaches, seine some minnows.”

  The cypress swamp that the water flowed into was black, black, and the gum trees were full of sleeping swamp birds, blue herons, and long-legged cranes and turkey vultures and snowy egrets and kingfishers.

  He said, “Down in New Orleans, guess what I did. You won’t never guess it in a million years. I’ll tell you. I slept in a bed same day a man died in it, didn’t even change the sheets.”

  Then, what the hail?

  At first Solon didn’t quite know what happened.

  Rain was blowing into the El Camino.

  Where’d all that durn wind and rain come from? That was the first thought that come into his head. He checked his window, see had he rolled it up real good.

  Then he said, “Oh.”r />
  He said, “Oh, I see. Bobo has done struck out on his own.”

  He thought, Well, I swanee. Ain’t that the limit? We’s just sitting here having us a friendly conversation, and first thing I find out, straight out of the clear blue, that boy ain’t even been listening. I knowed he was awful quiet, I ought to been done remarked on the rudeness of him letting me do all the talking, and goddurn it all if I ain’t feeling the least bit foolish right about now, finding out he wont even-down listening. And you know what else?—that door opened just easy as pie, didn’t it? I didn’t even hear it click. Wont one bit of trouble getting out that door, was it? Well, it’s a new car, it’s to be expected. Ole Dexter his ownself could have jumped out that door any time he wanted to, if he’d of just thunk of it.

  In a way it was like going to sleep for Solon, when he caught on that Bobo had made his move, left the car. It was like finally dropping off to sleep, when you’re just so durn tired you just bout to die. What a relief. That’s what Solon was thinking. It’s over. Thank-you-jesus. It’s all over.

  Solon wondered about Bobo, out there in the rain, in that gravel. Sharp rocks he’s running on, just got to be. He hoped it was easier on his feet than it looked like, sho did. He spected that road gravel had clay in it, he spec ted Bobo had done sunk up over his shoes in red clay. First step, one shoe sucked off, next step, other shoe. That’s what Solon was thinking. Cain’t be no fun, dying without your shoes on, rocks on your heels, mud like quicksand, rainwater standing up on that bloody little meat-raw nappy head of his like pearls, like a crown of jewels. Got to be uncomfortable, sho does, even for a nigger.

  And you want to know something else Solon was about to mention to that boy before he showed this unexpected rude streak? He was about to say to him that, in a way, he wont sure quite how, Bobo reminded Solon a little bit of Jesus. Well, it was a compliment, if you looked at it in the right way.

  It wont Jesus, exactly, that Bobo put him in mind of. It was one of them little plaster of Paris Jesuses, like you see sometimes riding up on the dashboard of a car. Now why do you reckon Bobo’s gone remind Solon of a plastic Jesus, colored child like he was and Jesus white as the day is long? Solon didn’t claim to have no analytical mind, he just meant to pay the boy a compliment, if he wanted to take it that way.

  Seem like there was a song about plastic Jesus, wont they? Solon looked around in his head for the tune. He sang, I don’t care if it rains or freezes. He couldn’t remember the rest. Something about a plastic Jesus, though.

  Well, sure, that was it. Bobo the Plastic Jesus, sho nuff. Solon wondered had anybody else ever noticed the resemblance.

  So Solon sho did hate for Bobo to be out there behind the truck, scared half Out of his wits and cutting his feet on sharp gravel, just because he was taking him out to kill him. It was a shame, a crime and a shame.

  And dark out there, too, don’t you spect? Pore thang, blind in that Delta darkness, don’t you just know he is, cain’t see a blessed thing, don’t know where he’s running to. Breathing like a bellows, like somebody tearing up clean rags in his chest.

  That’s what Solon thought, was thinking. Got to be awful for the boy, ready to breathe his last breath like he was, sho does, jess awful.

  When’s he gone realize it’s over, Solon was thinking. When he gets around back to the tailgate? When he’s laying out in a ditch, or a field, or up inside a hollowed-out gum stump, waiting for me to come find him? When he realizes they ain’t no protection against this big pistol, down under the car seat, that well’s to been born in this hand of mine?

  Okay, so when the first bullet hit Solon in the face, it took him a minute to figure out just what the hail had done happened. Well, it was so durn fast, see, that was the thing. First he just sat there musing, like he was, and friendly thoughts, too, sho was, he liked the boy, now that he’d done spent some time talking with him, getting to know him.

  When the bullet split his jaw open and knocked out some teeth and cut off the end of his tongue, he wondered if he didn’t look to Bobo a little bit silly, maybe a little self-satisfied, thinking he was so well in control of the situation. He wondered if he didn’t look to Bobo like he was saying, “Huh? What? Who done shot me in the face?” It was embarrassing, Solon didn’t have no trouble admitting that much. It took him a minute or two to collect his wits, on account of being so durn surprised.

  What Solon reckoned was, the boy must of found that durn pistol that Solon throwed out the car window, Bobo must of, that’s what Solon finally started to figure out. Bobo must of had his sights on that pistol all the time, seen it glinting some place out there in the black darkness, in the weeds, Lord knows how, not even a nickel-plated pistol, and no moon at all, but he must of done that, somehow another, seen it out there in the weeds, or the ditch, and me sitting up here in this sissified car talking about fishing poles and boiled peanuts, and well don’t I feel like a solid gold fool. I must be blushing, bound to be.

  Up under the front seat, that’s where the heavy pistol was laying, the German Luger. Solon had tucked it there when he got back in the truck at Uncle and Auntee’s house. He reached down and touched it with his hand.

  The second shot flashed out, back behind him, just over Solon’s left shoulder, and this one hit him in the neck. He slumped down in the seat.

  The third shot hit the door of the truck, and missed Solon altogether.

  The next shot was worse, didn’t even hit the truck, that boy’s losing his touch.

  Then the next one hit him high on the left side, and Solon thought, “Well, now I know what it sounds like when a rib breaks. It sounds like a banjo string, real bad out of tune.” This was the shot that turned him right over on the seat, flop.

  Shock, it’s not such a bad thing, really, shock ain’t, medical terminology, you know, what you all-time hear about somebody going into when they get hurt real bad. It’s an overused term, akshully, shock is. Somebody’s all-time declaring, “I like to done went into shock!” Shock’s not no mystery, though. It’s about like most any other illness you might be unlucky enough to get. It ain’t so bad. You don’t feel nothing at all, once the shock gets going real good. The blood pressure, it goes way down, all of a sudden. Body temperature, the same. Breathing gets real slow, heartbeat, slow as molasses, liver function, kidney function, not much, I’m telling you. It’s a way of protecting you from pain, you ought to be grateful for shock, don’t be complaining to me about it, shock is your friend.

  The problem with shock, though, see, is you can die of it, shock gets serious, after a while.

  Solon, though, he didn’t go into shock. Some do, some don’t. Unpredictable, see, shock is. Solon always knowed there was some good reason for having that lightweight little peashooter pistol of his. You can get shot a half-dozen times with that durn little popgun and you still won’t go into shock.

  Different story, now, with a heavy pistol, big caliber handgun like a Luger, sho now. You get shot one or two times with that sapsucker, you gone go into shock whether you want to or not.

  Solon didn’t look too durn good, with his teeth and tongue missing, the way they suddenly was, he wasn’t denying that—but he didn’t go into shock.

  In fact, he got off a few shots his ownself, right before he passed out, in the direction of the flame that shot out of the little gun barrel, out there in the dark swamp, in the weeds with the rain still falling in sheets.

  Long time after this night was over and done with, Bobo’s mama, up in Chicago, out by the viaduct where the Blood Rangers wore berets and wrote their names in spraypaint on the viaduct, she wondered who Bobo was thinking about that night, those couple of minutes there in the swamp-grass, with bullets flying in all directions.

  She wondered was he thinking about her, his mama, who raised him up and loved him and wiped his rear end and gave him some titty when he was a hongry baby, and fed him some Gerber’s cereal and beets, and took him to the doctor when he was sick, and when he needed his booster shots, and look
ed all over Chicago for some little books to read to him that had pictures of colored children in them, and went over his spelling words with him before the test, and taught him how to hold his fork and his knife, and cried when some sassy little bitch wearing a skirt with pink bows all the way around the hem wouldn’t dance with him at the Valentine’s party in the school cafeteria because he talked with a teeny-tiny little lisp.

  Probably not, boy-child like Bobo, spote like he was, his daddy dead and gone. Bobo’s mama reckoned her boy probably wasn’t thinking about her a-tall, even though she was the one who would live a long time after this and would say words with meanings that her friends didn’t have no way of knowing what they meant to her, like, “Be sure to put the milk back in the refrigerator so it don’t spoil,” or “Somebody take that bone away from the dog.”

  Bobo’s mama thought Bobo was probably thinking about his daddy, who he never knew. Whose big gold ring he was wearing on his finger, that dark night among the gum stumps, in the rain, when the first bullet knocked out his eye and the second one dislocated his shoulder.

  9

  FROM THE eye that Solon’s bullet had knocked from its socket and that hung now upon the child’s moon-dark cheek in the insistent rain, the dead boy saw the world as if his seeing were accompanied by an eternal music, as living boys, still sleeping, unaware, in their safe beds, might hear singing from unexpected throats one morning when they wake up, the wind in a willow shade, bream bedding in the shallows of a lake, a cottonmouth hissing on a limb, the hymning of beehives, of a bird’s nest, the bray of the iceman’s mule, the cry of herons or mermaids in the swamp, and rain across wide water. In this music the demon eye saw what Bobo could not see in life, transformations, angels and devils, worlds invisible to him before death.