“Please,” he said. “Help me down. Tools... in there.” He nodded back with his head to show the barn that he was nailed to. I went back around the corner toward the door. Then I stopped.
He had been put up there a day ago or maybe two, and the raiders who had done it probably hadn’t gone far. Maybe they did it to punish him for not letting them in and making them rip his door off. Maybe he hurt one of them defending his house. Whatever the reason, they didn’t just want to kill him, they wanted to punish him. And that most likely meant they’d be back, because most people want to see the results of what they do. How would they react if they came back and found him down? If he stayed here, they’d just kill him outright, or maybe torture him to death some other way without leaving. That wouldn’t be a kindness, to get him off the wall only to end up like that.
And he couldn’t come with me. I don’t mean I wouldn’t let him, I mean he literally couldn’t. They’d put nails through both hands and both feet. He wouldn’t be able to walk; he’d probably be so sore he couldn’t even be moved in a wagon, if I found one. And if I carted him away, and the raiders came back? I couldn’t take a wagon across the fields to hide; I’d just be a sitting duck somewhere on the road, huffing and puffing as I pulled a helpless man and waited for the raiders to find me and give me hell for spoiling their fun.
Without going inside the barn, I went back to where he hung. He’d passed out. Maybe it was the effort of talking to me, or maybe he just relaxed from the relief of being discovered. I looked at his hands, swollen and blackened from where the nail punched through his wrists on out to the fingers. The veins stood out in an extra purple color, and the wound right around the nail was oozing with milky stuff. Two days hanging on a rusty nail had given him a whopping infection. Maybe something like this could have been cleared up before with penicillin and a tetanus shot, but now nothing could halt that kind of infection, not even chopping off his hands and cauterizing the wounds.
He must have noticed me there. He raised his head slow like there was an anvil strapped to it, and focused on me through his gummy eyes. His lips hung open like he wanted to ask a question.
I raised my machete and said, “Sorry.”
***
In the morning, I rolled up my sleeping blanket off the mattress. I wanted to kiss the mattress goodbye, I’d miss it so much. Breakfast was the crackers, which were still good. I figured I might as well eat them when I was somewhere I could wash them down with as much water as I wanted.
I had taken Bud and Candy off the pack for the night, and now I carried them both out onto the porch and set them on the handrail. I turned Bud around so he was facing the trees and the empty sheep corral.
Then I went back in the kitchen, turned over a chair, and jumped on it until one of the legs came off.
Bud heard me come back outside and said, “Where are we, Mary?”
He didn’t see me wind up and then hit him with the table leg as hard as I could. His skull split like a melon and spattered his sour brains all over the front lawn.
Candy said, “Better for him.”
“Yeah.”
I carried Candy back into the kitchen and tied her hair onto the backpack. Then I took the new head, threaded a rope through the holes I had cut in his ears, and strung him up beside Candy. I adjusted the old plastic bag I had tied around his neck stump to keep him from leaking blood.
“How’s that?” I said. “Comfy? Any pain?”
He looked a little puzzled, like he wanted to shake his head but couldn’t figure out how to do that without a body. Then his sunburned lips formed the word “No,” but no sound came out. He hadn’t learned yet how to have a voice without lungs.
I said, “I think I’ll call you Danny. Danny, this is Candy.”
Candy said, “Pleased to meet you.”
Bookmobile Day
I sometimes misremembered what day it was, even forgot Sunday once in a while if I was busy with planting or harvest, but Maeve never let me forget Bookmobile Day, the fourth Tuesday of every month. She was always at my front door by nine o’clock or thereabouts, rain or shine, with her little plastic bag of two or three books she had read. She always said Thank you so much when I opened the door because I was her ride. Her husband Mike had the truck out by six A.M. and wasn’t about to stay home late just so’s his wife could get her silly novels switched out. Me, though, I was old enough that I didn’t start work near so early anymore, and anyway I knew Maeve since she was a little girl, like enough to being my own daughter, so it wasn’t no trouble driving her down off the mountain to Ben’s Cross where the bookmobile stopped once a month.
She’d learned a long time ago that I wasn’t interested in what she’d read since last Bookmobile Day, especially with the kind of books she chose, but there was always stuff to talk about on the way anyways, about her kids or her sister’s kids or the weather and the crops. I always saw what she read anyway, though, because in my old pickup she’d take the books out of her plastic bag and look over their fronts and backs, like she was taking a last look at one of her kids before he went off to the factory in town or something. Most of the books had people like I’ve never seen in real life on the cover, men with long hair and no shirt and women with their bosoms pushed up to their chins. Half the time they were Scotsmen, the men, and all they were wearing was a kilt. Most of the people up here on the mountain are Scotch or Irish—in fact, most are Scotch and Irish after being in America this long and marrying each other—but I never seen a man like that in the flesh, all muscle and no fat. Most of us up here are carrying something up front over our belts except some real skinny folks like Cal Coogans, but he’s an old old farmer who smokes like he can’t breathe except through his pipe. I seen him without his shirt once, when I went by his place and it was laundry day, and he may be skinny but he ain’t got muscles like on the books, just bones under his skin and weird hairs on the outside.
And the women on those books, they don’t look decent to me; they’re all slender like fourteen-year-olds, ain’t yet had a baby or started putting on hips, but they’re making eyes at those men like they’re all grown up. We may be living out yonder up on the mountain, but we ain’t like those hillbillies that marry their cousins at twelve years old. We’re good Christian folk on the mountain. At least when we remember it’s Sunday.
But I never ain’t said anything to Maeve because them books is what keeps her happy, what with that big bear of a husband and her three kids. So if Scotsmen that don’t look like no real men and women that don’t look like grown-up women is what keeps her happy, then go for it, says I. And those ain’t the only books she gets. Sometimes she gets a western, all hats and horses on the cover, and once or twice she’s even got picture books, though she hasn’t brought one home for a while, so I don’t expect they went over real well with her kids or her Mike.
But this time we were chatting and the sun was shining for spring and she’s all happy to get to Ben’s Cross and the bookmobile’s waiting for her—I mean, not just for her, there’s three or four other people come every month, some even bring their kids, but still, she gets desperate worried when she gets down to the Cross and the bookmobile ain’t there yet. Ben’s Cross ain’t a town, it’s just a crossroads, one of ’em’s even paved, and it’s called that because Ben Chambers who was old when I was young, he set up a little grocery store there, and now his grandsons run it. The bookmobile parks in the dirt patch outside Ben’s out of the way of the one gas pump, and Maeve runs on in like she’s a little girl again.
I just take care of some business in Ben’s and go back out to my truck to eat an apple and wait. Maeve’s usually in there fifteen or twenty minutes which isn’t enough time for a good nap, but I can just sit with my thoughts. If I weren’t my own best company, I wouldn’t have lived alone for the last forty years.
So this time when Maeve steps off the bookmobile, she’s not as bouncy as she usually is. I don’t mean something’s wrong, but it’s not as right as normal. She g
ets in and I start back up the mountain, listening to my transmission complain. Maeve just looks at her books like she’s puzzled or something.
Everything okay in the bookmobile? I say.
She says, Yeah, they didn’t have any more Louis Laymer books this time, so I got some other stuff. And it was a different lady this time, she said the normal lady’s been sick a couple of weeks. The normal one knows what I like, but this new lady...
Maeve holds up a book, and I know the road well enough to look over at it while I’m driving. First thing I see is it’s a hardcover, not like the paperbacks she always gets, and it’s about half again as big as the paperbacks. The cover ain’t got no art; it’s dark green fabric, and the corners are banged up like it’s been around a while.
I said, She wouldn’t let you get what you like?
Oh no, I got some of them too, she said, and she held up the normal things she reads, all shirtless men and shameless women. But she said, When I said there weren’t no more Louis Laymer books, she said I oughtta try out something different so’s I don’t run out of the stuff I already know I like. I guess that makes sense, don’t it?
I nodded and said, And if you don’t like a bookmobile book, it don’t cost you nothing to stop reading it.
She says, Exactly. The lady said that reading puts new stuff in your head. I never thought of it that way, but sounds true enough, right? I mean, unless I read about it, I ain’t never gonna see stuff like this on the mountain. She held up her paperbacks.
I say, Did I ever tell you I saw old Cal Coogans without his shirt, just like that?
Oh hush it, Joe, she laughs, you’re gonna make me throw up all over your windshield.
***
I didn’t see Maeve for a couple of weeks, but that ain’t unusual. We’re pretty close neighbors, about three-quarters of a mile, but I don’t have much call to go that direction on our road, and if Maeve has call to come mine, she sure don’t need to stop and say hi every time she goes by.
But anyways, it’s a couple of weeks later, in the evening after I stopped work, and I’m out by the pump filling up a bucket to take in for the wash, and Maeve’s middle child comes up. I can not remember whether his name is Jerry or Jamie, I never have, but I know who he is anyway. And he says, Mister McDonnell, can you come up to the house and see my mom? I think she’s sick.
I say, Where’s your poppa at?
He says, He’s still working at the fields across the valley and he don’t get back till late, but Momma, she’s acting like she’s off or something. And I thought at first Jerry or Jamie was out of breath and trembly from running to my place, but now I can tell he’s a little bit scared. This is his mother, after all.
I say, Is the other kids with her? And he says, Yesser, Rebecca sent me down to fetch you while she watches Momma.
So I set aside the bucket and say, Go ahead and get in my truck, we’ll take the easy way up. So off we go in my truck, and it’s getting pretty dark by the time I get to their house. Parts of their house is old, and parts isn’t so much; it used to be a one-roomer, long before they got it, and it’s just been added to, leanto on top of leanto.
I go in with him, and there’s Rebecca standing by the door, all coltish and almost as tall as me but no flesh on her yet, and the baby girl’s kinda standing behind her skirts, and Rebecca says, Thanks for coming, Mister McDonnell, and sorry for the trouble.
And I say, Where’s your momma? because I figure she’ll be lying down sick somewheres, but as soon as I say it I see Maeve coming out of the kitchen, just walking slow but not hurt or nothing, just humming to herself.
I’m confused, and I just look at her because she don’t look sick at first glance, and I figure I’ll ask her what’s going on, but she doesn’t even see me, she acts like, just wanders through the house humming some weird birdlike tune.
I say, Maeve? Everything okay? and she still doesn’t say anything, just goes right on by like she’s wandering through a stranger’s house.
I look at the kids, and Rebecca’s trying to look brave but it ain’t working. I say, She been like this long? and Rebecca nods and says, She was making supper and then she dropped the knife and just started roaming like that. I say, She answer you when you talk to her? And she and the boy look at each other, and she says, No, and he says, It’s not like words. I ask them what they mean, but they just shrug, like they don’t know any other way to say it.
So I follow Maeve where she walked into her bedroom, I walk all slow and gentle so as not to startle her, just like they say you shouldn’t startle someone who’s sleepwalking, and I say, Maeve, it’s Joe, wanna tell me what’s going on? And still she doesn’t answer, just hums that birdsong, all highs and lows and no real tune. So I say louder, Maeve, and I put a hand on her shoulder.
She turns around then and looks at me, and her eyes are like... like they’re not hers. And she says something, but it don’t sound like any kind of English, it don’t sound like any kind of speaking, it’s just sounds like they’re coming from somewhere deep inside her. Then she tries to walk past me and I say, Stop it, Maeve, you’re scaring the kids, and I hold her back with my hand on her shoulder.
And sudden she bares her teeth at me, and her eyes look like cat’s eyes, and then she slumps to the ground, and I’m too old and slow to catch her so her chest and head bounce off the wood floor. But she’s like she’s out, so I tell the kids to come help me, and together we lift her onto her bed, while the youngest just stands in the corner and sniffles. And I’m starting to worry that something’s gone wrong with her like a heart attack or a stroke, I heard they can even hit younger folks, but then she shakes her head slow and blinks and says, Joe, what you doing here, and why does my head hurt?
Well, the older two kids start crying, so I push them away to where the younger one is standing while I tell her what happened. And she’s puzzled, because she says she didn’t feel sick today at all, not even a headache. But she seems fine now except for a bruise on the forehead, so she gets off the bed and says, Kids, we better get hurrying on dinner, and Joe, won’t you stay and eat?
I figure I might as well just to make sure everything’s okay, so I stand out of the way while the kids help her get everything together and the table set. Right on the corner of the table is that book from the bookmobile, the hardcover, and she’s using her bookmobile card for a bookmark so I can see she’s into it some. I say, So’s this book any good after all?
And she laughs from the kitchen and says, It’s sure different. But it’s a good different. And the lady was right, it sure does put stuff in my head.
I say, What kind of stuff? And she laughs again and says, You wanna know what’s in a book, Joe, the best way is to read it. I can loan it to you when I’m done. But I say, Ain’t read a book prob’ly ten years, don’t wanna start now.
I eat with them all and watch the kids laugh and tease and forget what brought me here. Even Maeve acts like she’s forgot. But I don’t forget, and though I laugh with them all and eat hearty, I watch.
When I leave, it’s full dark and Mike isn’t back yet, but probably will be soon. Maeve’s got a plate waiting in the oven to stay warm, and I wave goodbye and go out to my truck.
***
It can’t be three days later that someone wakes me up pounding on my door. I don’t wake up easy, but whoever’s pounding ain’t going away, so I yell something, pull on my trousers, and I don’t grab my rifle but I make sure I know where it is.
Mike’s standing there, chafed at how long it took me to open up.
I say, Ain’t you usually gone working by this time? And he says, Gotta talk to you, Joe, it’s about Maeve.
So I invite him in. I ain’t got coffee or anything ready, of course, and I ain’t rushing my morning just because I got a visitor. Mike and me, we don’t get along too well. Never been an open quarrel or anything like that, but he’s a big stern bear of a man, hair all over his body and a beard that starts near to his eyebrows, and he’s got a sense of humor like
a brown bear someone woke too early in the spring. I never seen why he went after Maeve, and I never seen why she said yes to him. Like I said, she’s near enough to a daughter to me, so even after all these years I keep watching him to make sure he’s keeping her happy.
Like I said, I got no coffee or anything to offer him, so I kick out a chair and sit down in my own. Go ahead, I’m listening, I say.
He says, You were up at my place this week?
I said, One of your kids came and got me because Maeve seemed sick, but she got better after I got there.
He says, Sick how? And I see he’s not suspicious or angry, he’s worried. So I tell him how Maeve was when I got there, and what happened. He grunts and says, Kids didn’t tell me any of that, nor Maeve neither.
What’s the matter now? I say. Is she wandering around again?
Yeah, but not quite, he says. I woke up in the night because I heard something outside, and she wasn’t in bed. I look out the window and there she is, out back by the shed, lying in the grass and hollering. I go out to ask her what the holy hell she’s doing, but it’s like she didn’t recognize me. She just grabbed at her hair and shouted things, nonsense things.
Like birdcall? I say.
He just looks at me strange and says, Hell, no. She’s talking about fog and stars and what all I don’t know, about books and old men and fish and... You shoulda heard her. It was like she was trying to say stuff she didn’t know how to say. She said she’s trying to talk it out of her head.
What he said gets me to remembering something so I say, Did she have a green book?
Mike looks at me even stranger and says, Damned right she did, on the grass with her, and she was rolling back and forth across it. When she finally stopped—she just up and passed out, and I picked her up and carried her in—I went back out and got the book. You know what it is?
Levels: Fantastic and Macabre Stories Page 2
