Now Frank was clutching his Coke can and weeping tears of real happiness.
Wood fell back on the gravel, looking up at the stars and thinking of the role fate or the randomness of life or something had played in his story. There was no question that he was the major villain, but he and Milan were also the victims of poor timing. Just as he was about to propose, she had told him she was pregnant. If he had only spoken first, their entire marriage would have been changed. For him, it was the difference between volunteering and being drafted, and, for her, knowing that she was loved. A missed opportunity, occurring in the span of a moment, as painfully hard to accept as the way, say, Mavis’s daddy had drowned. Wood took another swig of whiskey, thinking about that now—about the randomness of life that can sometimes be softened by alcohol and sometimes not. And how beautiful it can be when the DNA from a dead man lying facedown in one inch of water can get together with a little thawed tadpole swimming around in a petrie dish thirty years later and make a little girl named after an entire town. Or how awful, like Wood and Milan’s poor timing. Or like when, as Rudy had once told him, if the White Sox had given Castro five hundred more dollars for a signing bonus, Rudy’s entire family and all of Cuba would now be free. It was enough to make you want to hold on to something that was true and steady—something like what Wood had already let go of. Now Miss Delaney’s voice was in his head. “The overriding message that one may take from all of literature is simply the idea that getting up in the morning is a remarkable act of human courage.” And there were also voices from the Literary Society of Paris, reviewing the story of Wood and Milan:
“Well, ever’body kept a tellin’ him how wonderful he was, and finally he just got to believin’ it.”
“Then it turns out, he’s just another man, and not a very good one at that.”
“It’s an old story, but I thought his wife was the best person in it.”
Wood was interrupted by Frank and Brundidge carrying on about something. Frank said excitedly, “That ol’ boy was tryin’ to warn me!” Brundidge brought the soda can over to Wood.
“Do you believe this? Look at what’s on this can!”
Wood took it, reading it to himself. “To Frank, Keep a cool tool. Mick Jagger.” Wood looked at Brundidge stupidly. Brundidge took the can back and stomped off. “Son of a bitch was a damn psychic!” Wood was thinking this was enough to do him in. A drugged-out rock star giving prophetic, spot-on advice to a hillbilly loser he’s known for five minutes. And Wood couldn’t even discern the obvious good intentions of the woman who sleeps next to him. Or at least used to.
He was headed for the van now. Going to trade in the whiskey for some scotch. He caught a glimpse of himself in the van’s side mirror. He was thinking what a flaming asshole he was, and that he should have flames all around his head, like the hood of Frank’s car. What made him the grand prize in his and Milan’s marriage, anyway? A mere accident of birth. She could just as easily have been the only child of Slim and Dr. Mac and he the teenage caretaker of an incontinent, schizophrenic garbage man. But he was born lucky. He got to be the carefree gilded boy lying around in cheap motel rooms with his lips pressed to her cheek, whispering, “Don’t worry, baby, it’ll be okay.” That was his contribution back then. And never a moment of slipping himself into her marrow. With all the roar of his cheering family and his blue-chip education, that had been the best that Woodrow Phineas McIlmore could come up with.
Brundidge was yelling, “Come on! Let’s get the hell outta here! Marcus West just turned his lights on.”
Wood got up and lumbered over and looked at what was now a shallow hole and a capsule that didn’t seem to be buried very deep at all. He said, almost disinterested, “Damn. You all didn’t stick it back in very far.”
“We got it back in there good enough. Let’s go!”
Brundidge handed Frank his car key. “Frank, you take my van home. I’ll get it later.”
Frank said, “Where are you goin’?”
Brundidge said, gesturing toward Wood. “I’m riding with him. He’s too drunk to drive this thing alone. Go on. Get going.”
Frank hugged them both, fighting more tears. “I’ll never forgit you all for this.”
Brundidge said, “No, Frank, you have to forget. Don’t ever mention it again.”
“If I ever have a boy, I’m gonna name him Woodrow Earl.”
Knowing Frank’s other kid was named Doral, after the cigarette, Brundidge said, “Well, then, Lord help him. Now get the hell out of here!”
Brundidge and Wood climbed up on the backhoe. Wood started the engine. Brundidge said, crouching next to him, “Can you still drive this thing?”
“Yeah, I can drive it. But see, here’s the problem…I don’t have anywhere to go.” He said this like he was completely out of ideas, like he might not even bother to take his next breath if Brundidge didn’t tell him to.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Wood didn’t look at him. “You know what’s wrong with me.”
“I don’t know nothin’.”
“Sure you do. I threw away my life.” He hesitated, then, “And I’m not gonna get it back…am I?”
After a while, Brundidge said, “I really don’t know.” This simple truth coming from someone who put the best shine on everything pierced Wood like nothing else. He reached for the gears and shifted, attempting to steady himself. Then, once they were under way, he shook his head, laughing softly. “You ever see mold?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen mold.”
“I’m talkin’ about slime mold. That’s the lowest thing on the food chain, Brun.” He leaned close like he was passing along a secret. “Other bacteria will not grow on it. Will not touch it.”
“So?”
“My God, don’t you get it? Even bacteria has a line it will not cross.”
“What do you wanna talk about shit like that for? I don’t wanna hear it.”
“’Cause that’s what I studied in med school. See? That’s what’s so funny.” Wood was laughing more now. “I was taught that. I actually knew it.”
Brundidge frowned. “Just keep your eyes on the road, okay?”
They drove a while longer. Wood turned morose. “I remember when I used to go down to the hospital and watch my dad in surgery. You remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll never forget how, when he would cut people open, he had this way of holding human tissue in his hand. I’ve never seen anything like it. He did it…like it was an honor. Just a big fuckin’ honor.” Wood stared straight ahead into the darkness. “That’s the kind of man he was.”
Wood had been adamant that they not drive by Marcus West’s house because he was up now and would hear them. And the only other way out was the interstate. But Brundidge, who was not as drunk as Wood, had a sinking feeling there was a darker reason that they were now riding in a glass cab, one story up, on an eight-lane highway. Wood was looking for more trouble—some kind of punishment for all the things he’d done. Because sometimes, engaging something dramatic or dangerous was better than simple anguish, at least for a man. They had gone only a couple of miles when something dramatic and dangerous presented itself.
Just as they were passing the Paris County Fed-Mart Superstore, they saw it. Lonnie Rhinehart, with his two henchmen, sitting in the middle of the empty parking lot. Because Fed-Mart closed at midnight, Lonnie often used their vast facility for after-hours socializing. Like a redneck “Big Daddy” overseeing his concrete plantation, he would sit around in his pickup truck till all hours of the morning, drinking beer and listening to country music on his tellingly large speakers. Lonnie also hung out at the convenience stores and truck stops, but Fed-Mart was his flagship venue. There was just something irresistibly seductive about a place where you could buy ammo in bulk, along with condoms and a lawn mower, all at eleven thirty at night.
Brundidge said, “Well, well. Looks like Christmas is gonna come early this year.”
Woo
d stared for a minute. Then, shifting gears, he turned into the parking lot. Suddenly, he increased their speed and began heading straight toward Lonnie’s truck.
Brundidge said, “What are you doing? I just meant, let’s finish the fight.”
“No. We’ve already had the fight. Now we’re gonna take the son of a bitch out!”
Brundidge was alarmed. “No. No. Wrong. Come on, stop it now. Let’s get a plan here.”
Inside the truck, Lonnie and his two friends had become riveted by the backhoe that was now barreling toward them. Lonnie said, “What the—?” He had no sooner begun to speak than he could see that it was Brundidge and Wood who were inside the thing. “Holy shit! What the hell are they doin’?”
The three rednecks could also see that Earl Brundidge’s mouth was wide open and that he seemed to be yelling about something. And that Wood, who never took his eyes off of them, didn’t seem to be listening. Just before the backhoe slammed into them, Wood stomped on the brake, which caused a long drawn-out screeching noise, with the shovel ending up only inches from Lonnie’s front bumper. After that, the five men sat there, staring drunkenly at one another—the air heavy with alcohol and testosterone.
Now Wood noticed that Lonnie’s lip was curled in a little sneer. And this made Wood mad. In fact, it enraged him. The idea that this man could kill their greatest friend and still wear a sneer like that. He quickly readjusted the shovel and once he had engaged the bottom of Lonnie’s bumper, he lifted the pickup as high as he could, until the front end was pointed skyward. More howling could be heard from inside the truck’s cab. Then Wood released the shovel, dropping them. Wood smiled at Brundidge, pleased. Lonnie frantically fumbled for his keys, but Wood maneuvered the backhoe behind the truck and repeated the procedure. This time, he catapulted the trio into the dashboard, causing their faces to press hard against the windshield. The men’s screams could be heard all over the parking lot, with Lonnie’s trumping the others. “Shit! This mother’s gonna kill us!”
Wood released the shovel again, slamming them to the ground. Brundidge said, “I like that. That was good. Now let’s go home.”
Wood looked at him and said a little drunkenly, “I told you, I don’t have a home.”
Then he repositioned the backhoe and began pushing the men and their truck toward the Paris County Fed-Mart Superstore. “Anyway we can’t quit now. This is for Jeet. We have to finish it.”
Brundidge was dumbfounded. No one hated these two hundred thousand square feet of cinder blocks more than he did. But he was also half-sober. “What do you mean? Kill ’em?”
Wood replied, “I don’t give a damn what happens to ’em. They killed Jeet and he hated this store. Looks to me like a twofer.”
Brundidge was yelling now, almost drowning out the noise that came from the bulldozer pushing the truck. “You crazy SOB! We can’t take this out! It’s a superstore!”
“Bullshit. There’s nothing super in there. Anyway, it’s ruined everything. It has to go.”
As the truck neared the building, Lonnie and his cohorts increased their hollering and pleading. Wood was pushing the accelerator full-tilt now. Brundidge looked up, awed by the vastness of what they were approaching. “Jesus. We’re really gonna do this.”
The truck and the backhoe then careened through the plate-glass window, setting off the alarm and scattering an enormous display of clothes that had been designed by a movie star. The air was suddenly littered with cheap shirts, thin sweaters, and poorly hemmed pants, a few of which landed haphazardly on the windshields of both vehicles. Wood continued pushing the truck toward what turned into a sort of escalated scenic tour of redneck Paradise, mowing down aisles of products, barreling through the automotive section and sending stacks of tires bouncing into the air, past sporting goods and beer coolers and on into patio furniture, destroying several sets of tables and lawn chairs before Lonnie’s crumpled pickup finally came to rest inside a large portable swimming pool. After that, the backhoe climbed unceremoniously up on top of it. Then it was eerily quiet except for the sound of a distant alarm. After about a minute, Lonnie and the two men crawled out of the truck and limped off, groaning. Brundidge and Wood got down off the backhoe. Other than a bad gash over Wood’s eye, on the same side of his face where Luke had struck him, they were remarkably unscathed. They stood there for a while, like a couple of dazed shoppers, taking in the seemingly endless rows of still untouched merchandise.
Finally, Wood said, squinting from the blood that had leaked into his eye, “Good God, we didn’t even make a dent. How big is this piss hole?”
Brundidge leaned against a self-cleaning outdoor grill, trying to collect himself. “I dunno. Three or four football fields.” He ignored the approaching sirens. “And they’re everywhere. There’s thousands of ’em.”
Wood absorbed this, then kicked the crumpled remains of a bug-light made in Korea. “Okay. Well, that’s a start.”
Wood was lying on the bunk in his jail cell. Brundidge had gone to make his one phone call to Charlotte. Wood didn’t have anyone to call. He was out of excuses for his own behavior and couldn’t think of a single living soul who might care to speak with him. He was counting on Charlotte, the out-of-towner, to bring Brundidge’s checkbook and post bail for both of them.
In spite of the life-changing events that he had just participated in (he had to admit that he had enjoyed destroying Lonnie’s truck even more than a small section of the Paris County Fed-Mart Superstore), all he could think of now was getting home to Milan. There was so much he had to tell her, but mostly he just wanted to be in her lovely, safe, warm presence again. His mind was still reeling from the story Frank had told him. He could finally see how he had used all the wrong clues to build a stereotype of his own wife. “Blonde, Simple, Needs Money, Loves to Shop”—a stereotype that was just as false as any that Lonnie Rhinehart could conjure up. He had actually looked down on her for her devotion to the very things that made his life easy. And in her own fashion, she had whipped him good for it, too. She had stood naked on a rock in the moonlight and reminded everyone what a fool he was and then set him free and told his girlfriend that she could have him. And to top it off, she had done everything humanly possible to protect their children from his recklessness.
Brundidge returned from making his call. As one of the deputies opened the cell door, Wood asked, “What did she say?”
Brundidge said, “What did she say? Well, she’s pleased, of course. It’s five-thirty in the morning and she’s now on her way to see Fishbait Oliver, the Bailbondsman Who’s Also a Friend. Oh, yeah, I’m impressin’ the hell out of her. I just told her, ‘Hey, while you’re there, go ahead and pick up a bucket of minnows for yourself, too. It’s on me.’” The deputy closed the cell door and Brundidge sat on the bunk below Wood’s. “Damn. What am I doin’? I really like this girl.”
The both lay quietly, then Wood said, “You know what an intrauterine device looks like?”
Brundidge sighed. “My God, are we gonna start this again? Don’t you know any normal shit to talk about?”
Wood leaned over the top bunk. “I’m serious. It’s that thin, like a little coil.” He showed Brundidge, with his fingers almost touching. “That thin. I can put one in with my toes.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Nothin’. I was just thinkin’, what I have to do to get my wife back is…even more delicate.”
“Yeah, that’s the ticket. Now you’re thinkin’.”
In a little while, Brundidge fell asleep.
When Wood looked up, Marcus West was staring at him. Marcus took his key and unlocked the door as he spoke. “Woodrow, I don’t know where you boys are goin’ when you get outta here. But I have a suggestion. Home.” Wood smiled.
CHAPTER 25
The sun was just stirring the Champanelle River when a red Mustang convertible pulled up to the sandbar and two young people got out. Without speaking, they undressed and then started running toward the water, two beautiful, high-rump
ed backsides fulfilling a long-suppressed desire. The girl’s shiny straight hair bounced from side to side as she raced the boy—raced him on well-shaped legs that people said looked just like her mother’s, only longer. As they reached the water’s edge, she grabbed the boy’s hand and they dove, he, a little awkward, she, with her back slightly hollowed and feet together, just as she’d been taught, with both landing at the exact same moment like a couple of show-off porpoises. When they came up again, they found each other, and the girl’s laugh, which people said was too loud, could be heard up and down the river.
Wood was running along Main Street now. He hadn’t slept in days and was still a little drunk. But when he had stepped away from the jail and taken in the long view of the boulevard—the cobblestones that had once sounded so right under the hooves of his horse, and the old boarded-up stores that had so carefully sheltered his boyhood—he had the feeling that for the first time in a long time, he was going in the right direction. And that he had come from a very long distance to be here.
He had just passed Gift Chest Jewelers and Tillman’s when he saw someone standing in front of Jeter’s Market. She was a large woman and was carrying a bag of groceries with one hand on her hip as she smiled at him and shook her head a little. He knew that look very well, knew that she was saying, “Mmm, hmm, went and got ourselves into some trouble, did we? Well, that’s all right, Peaches. You’re on the right road now.”
Wood smiled back at Mae Ethel, wanting to cross toward her, but then Hank and Pauline Jeter emerged from their store, startling him. Wood could see that age hadn’t weighed them down yet. Hank wiped his hands on his meat apron and, with a stick match, lit his pipe. He nodded to Wood, as though he were telling him that it was just another day. Wood nodded back, grateful, and then noticed that Pauline was calling to someone up the street. He moved on, trying to see who it was. As he neared Case Hardware, he saw the back of a little boy, maybe six or seven, who was bent over, laughing. When Wood got close, he could tell that it was Jeter. God, it was good to see him like that. Then, two other little boys came running up. Brundidge had Wood in some sort of a headlock and they were all laughing. The older Wood tried to approach them, but the trio quickly untied their horses from a parking meter and rode off. As Wood stood watching, Jeter turned around and waved at him in a way that said he would see him again.
Liberating Paris Page 33
