The Lost Country

by William Gay

  Even when the crowd had dissipated Edgewater could feel the clawed hand against his ribcage, could see the mad and evil face, smell the carrion breath. It would not fade. It burned on the periphery of his memory as if madness were contagious, not as if it were some face he had seen in a crowd but his own, glimpsed out of the corner of his eyes, warped and heightened by the glass of some sideshow mirror.

  The two had waited for some time and when the tall youth came through the poolroom door they turned and watched him stroll nonchalantly across the floor toward the pinball machine.

  There’s pretty boy now, one of them said to the other.

  Edgewater turned to look as well. The newcomer was something to see. He had on pegged checked pants low on his hips and a pink shirt with a buttondown collar and a black necktie as narrow as a shoestring. He had on brown shoes with white explosions radiating out from the toes and he had sunglasses with mirrored lenses hiding his eyes. There was a rum-soaked Tennessee Crooks cigar clamped far back in his lean jaw and beneath the stingybrim hat his yellow hair was as smooth and shiny as a bird’s wing. He looked like a farm boy’s fantasy of what a cheap gigolo must be.

  Hey, prettyface, one of the men called. Edgewater drank from his beer; in the bar’s mirror the man’s eyes briefly touched his own. They were black and tiny as a pig’s eyes. They jerked away as if Edgewater might suspect he addressed him. Then he wiped his mouth and turned toward the pinball machine, in the wavering mirror there was the yellow of his hair, white cropped expanse of his neck.

  Hello, P.D., the boy at the pinball machine said. He raised the sunglasses to his forehead as if the lenses were opaque. What could I do for you boys?

  Wolf just got to wantin to see you, P.D. said. He stretched his feet out in the floor and fell to studying the scuffed leather of his shoes. He said if we seen you tell you to drop by the cabstand a minute.

  If I get time, the boy said. He looked at his wrist, frowned as if he had absentmindedly forgotten his watch. I’m pretty tied up this evening.

  Tell you what Bradshaw, P.D. said. Wolf said you might be busy. He said it was important we was to persuade you.

  Bradshaw grinned. Behind him the pinball machine lights flickered in abeyance. I’m kind of a hard sell, he said. How did he say to persuade me?

  P.D. grinned. He said tell you to jump and if you didn’t ask how high he said kick the livin shit out of you.

  Bradshaw flushed. He took off the glasses, held them in his hands as if absentmindedly studying his reflection.

  You tell him I said if he wants his money he can by God whistle for it. Tell him my accounts is like the dust, the rain’ll settle it.

  The man shrugged. It’s your lookout. He’ll get it one way or another.

  You think I just crawled out of some holler, come off Punkin Creek or somewhere? Hell, I been around. He think I don’t know a marked card when I see one? He think I’d believe them cards come with little pinholes punched all in em like that? Shit, P.D.

  If they was there it took you long enough to find em.

  Hell, I was just playin him along.

  Sure you was.

  Tell you something else, P.D. You look just a cunthair light in the ass to be a hired gun.

  You son of a bitch. I been lookin for an excuse to bust that face.

  Watch him P.D. He’s got that little switchblade. I seen him cut a nigger over by Clifton.

  P.D. was already off the stool.

  He better of brought one with a chocolate handle, he said. He crossed the floor in two or three huge steps and began to slap the blond boy’s face. The stingybrim snapped off and the blond hair whipped from side to side with the methodical blows. The mirrored glasses fell, were kicked aside. The blond boy had one hand in his pocket but he could not seem to get it out. P.D. hit him in the face and he fell backwards, his elbows went through the pinball machine top with an explosion of breaking glass.

  You a tough son of a bitch all right, P.D. said. He picked Bradshaw up and spun him around. There was blood running out of the corner of his mouth. He hit P.D. a glancing blow on the jaw and P.D. sidestepped easily and wrestled him to the floor. He rolled atop him; the face looking up from the floor was twisted, pale and wild. Then the mouth worked convulsively. He spat a mouthful of blood into P.D.’s face and began to laugh through broken teeth.

  Crazy son of a bitch. He began to pound Bradshaw in the face. The man on the stool was watching Edgewater. Don’t even think about it, he said.

  What?

  You looked for a minute there like you wanted to play too.

  Hell, be nothing to me.

  That’s what I just told you.

  Tell you what, Edgewater said after a time. I’m getting a little tired of everybody in this damned town tellin me what I think.

  The counterman kept screaming at them to stop. All at once Edgewater found himself sliding across the floor on his back and shoulder with lights flashing on and off in his head, the counterman part of a receding vision, his face twisted with anger, phone to his head, finger busily dialing. He pitched up against the dope box. Then the man was running toward him across a slick and tilted floor, the door looked miles away. He saw the foot coming, rolled, felt the shock of pain run down his thigh. He grabbed the man’s legs, felt a rain of blows on his head and shoulders, the man fell heavily alongside him. Somewhere sirens began. It couldn’t be this quick, he thought. They grew louder in volume. Bradshaw and P.D. were on their feet circling. The counterman hit P.D. with a chair. His eyes went wide and white and he fell like a dropped stone. Goddamn hillbillies, the counterman was saying. He was advancing on Edgewater with the chair raised.

  Let’s go, good buddy, Bradshaw said. He done called the fuckin law. He wiped his mouth. His forearm came away streaked with blood. Hit the back door.

  Bradshaw’s car, a new Pontiac convertible, was in the back parking lot. Bradshaw did not even open the door. He leapt into the driver’s seat and the motor caught on the first crank. Everbody’s got to call the shittin law, he said, squalling and smoking before Edgewater had the door closed.

  Son of a bitch, Bradshaw said. A black and white blocked the alley’s mouth, its lights sinister and strobic. He looked the car down, lurched and swerved sideways and threw it into reverse and they went careening crazily backward into the parking lot. He spun forward toward the alley’s nether end.

  All we got to do is make the city limits.

  Bradshaw had already run two red lights before the prowl car fell into pursuit. Bradshaw was intent on his driving. He narrowly missed a wagon full of pale and startled faces, cornered at the Baptist church and shot off a long hill. JESUS SAVES, a sign there said. Another: JESUS CHRIST IS COMING, BE READY. He went past the city limits sign at eighty.

  So long, motherfucker, Bradshaw said.

  Edgewater had turned in the seat, was peering back. I guess he never heard that about the city limits, he said. He’s coming on.

  He ain’t supposed to do that, Bradshaw said. We got him by the balls now.

  How you figure that?

  Hell, just ain’t supposed to do it. He’s breaking the law his own self. He chuckled to himself, then he fell silent, uneasily studied the car in the rearview mirror. Hell, it don’t matter. This is Mavis’s car and it runs like a striped ass ape. We’ll outrun the son of a bitch. She’ll do one o five in a quarter.

  They were in his country now, homes shot past, trees elastic and elongated, passersby frozen in motion, heads that turned slowly to watch their flight down the dusty roadbed. Telephone poles came like pickets in a fence.

  A startled covey of berrypickers was their undoing. They came around a corner. Bradshaw was almost upon them before he saw them. They were crossing the road. He began to pound the horn, when he hit the brakes the back end slid around, they hustled broadside down the road, the steering wheel spinning crazily through Bradshaw’s fingers, his face suffused with horror, a toothless old woman screaming imprecatory upon him, bonneted women hurtling berry bucket
s high into the air and fleeing blindly and arms akimbo into the briar thicket, faces frozen in mindless masks of impotent fear.

  Lord have mercy, Bradshaw said. A rail fence broke with a sickening thump and the car jumped the shoulder of the road, veered through a bright field of bitterweed and squealing hogs, ceased on its side in a thicket of brush and its wheels spinning and the distant siren becoming strident and close.

  Bradshaw and Edgewater crawled out, feeling for broken bones. Shit a brick, Bradshaw said. He was staring at the demolished car with something akin to fear. He got up and solicitously halted the spinning wheels one by one. He sat back down and his face looked as if he were about to cry. The new smell wasn’t even wore off it, he said. The men began to climb down the brushy slope. The women still stood watching across the field. The patrol car had stopped on the road. Two men had gotten out and stood with the berrypickers. Other women straggled onto the roadbed, gathering their buckets. The group stood in silent and accusatory tableau, fingers pointing across the bitterweed.

  Look at em. Bradshaw smirked. I bet if they had to come up with a dry pair of drawers between them they’d be shit out of luck.

  ———

  Bradshaw took a rum-soaked Crook out of his pocket, unwrapped it, looked at it ruefully. He selected the longest piece, stuck it into his mouth, and struck a match on the cruiser door. He lit the cigar and inhaled deeply. He blew out the smoke and settled himself comfortably back against the upholstery. He crossed his legs. Uncrossed them, leaned forward, and spoke through the steel mesh.

  You boys all set for the big lawsuit? he asked.

  Parnell ignored him, turned off the dirt road onto the blacktop. The deputy turned and stared at Bradshaw through the grill, but not as if he was very interested. Which lawsuit is that?

  The one I’m slappin on you, Bradshaw said. It’s your fault Mavis’s car is all busted up like that. She’ll be at the courthouse with a slick-talkin Memphis lawyer and a stack of legal papers you couldn’t put in a goddamned footlocker. If you don’t think she’ll shake things up you’re livin in a dream world. When she gets through with that shittin courthouse bunch they won’t be a picture left on the walls.

  Who is this Mavis I keep hearin about? the deputy wondered.

  Mavis Hodges runs the Starvue Drive-In and she pulls some weight in this county, Bradshaw says. Her taxes is morn you draw for a salary. Go ahead and lock me up and she’ll have me on the sidewalk so fast your head’ll spin.

  She must be right fond of you, the deputy said.

  She gets her money’s worth, Bradshaw said. He gazed out the window. Edgewater stared past his profile to where Bradshaw watched freedom roll by, geometric rows of corn reeling past like spokes in a turnstile, a pastoral scene of grazing cows, with each revolution of the cruiser’s wheels the landscape world became still more remote. For an agonizing moment the world outside became very dear to him, a real sense of loss twisted in him. If he were free he would do it all differently. Even now a bus he was not on rolled toward the serene blue mountains.

  Rave on catshit, the deputy said contemptuously. Somebody’ll cover you up. Side by side they sat on a hardened wood bench in an austere cubicle with other minions of the law. Their crackled names detached and ominous over the radio. Bradshaw listened rapt as if some curious fame or adulation had been bestowed upon him. A name in the public eye or ear bandied about by faceless and nameless officials in places far from this one. No prior convictions. Apparently nowhere by no one in all the world. The jawline hardened, the close-set eyes yellow and reptilian, a face to stare back at you from post office walls.

  Okay, let’s go upstairs, Parnell said. He arose, stood waiting. Bradshaw didn’t move.

  I get a phone call, he said.

  You get exactly what I say you get and any more of that smart mouth and what you’ll get is a blackjack alongside of the head.

  You wait’ll Mavis gets here.

  I’m sick of hearin about Mavis, Parnell said. I don’t care if Mavis is sleepin with Governor Gordon Browning, I don’t care if she’s got a inside track with God Almighty. You’re goin on a public work gang or I’ll know the answer why. He had approached Bradshaw, grasped the fabric of his shirt, slowly pulled him erect. Bradshaw hung slack and unprotesting. He might have been a bag of grain.

  I warned you over a month ago to hunt you another roostin place. I warned your runnin mate there this mornin. Now move it. He shoved Bradshaw. Bradshaw staggered two or three steps, came up against the wall, caught his balance. A woman from a calendar smiled at him, her face unruffled and demure. Edgewater had arisen, started to the door. Bradshaw’s hair was in his eyes. His cut mouth was beginning to bleed again. A trickle of pink welled on his chin. A hand came up to wipe it away. His eyes looked wild and congested. Listen to him, he told Edgewater. His face was trying to smile. Listen at him. Out of a job already and don’t even know it.

  Edgewater chose himself a cot and laid back, weary, his fingers latticed beneath his head. He closed his eyes. Bradshaw hunkered by the side of the bunk. His voice was a steady drone in Edgewater’s ears. Edgewater opened his eyes. The walls were filthy cracked plaster. Graffiti composition aflare and transient. A roach watched possessively from a chink in a concrete block. His eyes flickered around to the five or six men who shared the bullpen.

  If I had my hat on I wouldn’t even by God take it off, Bradshaw said. I won’t be here long enough to make myself at home. Not you neither. You saved my life, Billy. You think Mavis won’t be tickled? I’ll get you a job with her out there at the drive-in. Hell, you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. All the hamburgers and hot dogs you can eat and a picture show every night and more women than you ever seen in one place.

  It sounds nice. What do you do?

  Just odd jobs, clean up. Kindly keep a eye on people, sort of like a bouncer, keep em from getting too rough. Sell stuff in the concession stand. He winked Edgewater a sly and enormous wink. I take care of whatever come up.

  He fell silent, his face rueful, this involuntary refugee from the American dream.

  Hell, Mavis can’t get along without me out there. You can bet she missed me already. I was done supposed to be back. Lord, she got a temper. She’ll blow in here in a minute like a scalded dog and you think the hair won’t fly? Them sons of bitches. They’ll be yessirrin and nosirrin and long remember the taste I’ll leave in their mouth.

  A barrel-shaped man in a dirty T-shirt winced and looked up with interest at Bradshaw from his worn copy of Field and Stream. He scrutinized him with curiosity. Boys we got either a politician or one of them movie stars here, he announced. I ain’t figured out which yet. He turned to his fellows with a broad smile as if to draw them into his joke.

  Bradshaw gave a sharp look of contempt. The other men barely looked up. They seemed not to care, as if they had heard it all before. Or said it themselves.

  Laugh if it makes you feel better, Bradshaw said. See how much you laugh when you’re still settin here and I’m out somers blowin the foam off a cold one.

  What are you in here for anyway, slick?

  You figger it out.

  The fat man took a pair of spectacles from his overall pocket, re moved them from their case, and hooked them over his nose. The ways of human nature ain’t unknown to me, he told the men. I ort to be able to figger it out for myself. Behind the glass his eyes were limpid and blue. He studied Bradshaw intently. Cowfuckin? he asked at length.

  Income tax evasion, Bradshaw told him without batting an eye.

  Suppertime. Meals fetched up here. The sullen jailer had aligned them on the floor above the stairs.

  What is this shit? Edgewater kept asking. What is this mess anyway? Some kind of fried something of an indeterminate color and texture. It exuded a strong fishy smell about it but it resembled no fish Edgewater had ever come into contact with. White beans and turnip salad. Atop the mounded greens a pale white worm nestled like some arcane garnish. He pushed the plate back. All about him the rat
tle of cutlery, the scraping of tin plates. Hungry eyes fell on his tray. Beyond the high barred windows a cool summer dusk had fallen on the land. The silent expanse of night.

  You not eatin? the fat man asked solicitously. His hand already searching tentatively for the plate.

  Take it on, Edgewater said. The man began to scrape it onto his own plate, raking the worm delicately to the side like some tidbit to save for last.

  You’ll develop a taste for it, he reassured Edgewater.

  He slept adrift in the watches of the night. He could feel the highway leaking back the day’s heat through the soles of his shoes. Hear the warm wind in the darkening rushes. He dreamed his death and a velvet expanse of nothingness he was sliding down toward a corner of the world darker still where even light was imprisoned. Later he heard approaching voices, coarse, strident, the yelps of jackals calling one to another, mate to mate, the quarrelling asides of necromancers who fought bitterly over his flesh and bones. He awoke to the bright light of the cell and rubbed his eyes in wonder and looked about him.

  His cellmates looked galvanized now with interest. They had arisen and were sitting up on their cots blinking their eyes, peering toward the stairwell as if some entertainment was being held there for their amusement. Above the lichencrept concrete of the stairs had arisen a middleaged woman’s face like a disembodied and sinister idol or some mad priest’s graven image from an older time. Her black hair was sprung out in medusalike ringlets and her eyes seemed to be afire. They were fixed with a fierce and palpable malevolence on Bradshaw who had arisen and made a tentative move to approach her. He had halted, there was a stunned and foolish look on his face as if he had been standing on something which had been suddenly jerked from beneath him.

  You ignorant ungrateful turd, you backwoods cretin, the woman was saying. I knew you had shit for brains but I thought you could drive to the store and pick up a dozen eggs. What have you got to say for yourself?

  Sugarbabe, Bradshaw said. He made shushing sounds with his mouth, his wild eyes indicated the presence of strangers. She’s just all tore up because of the way they done me, he said aside to Edgewater.