by John Brandon
“Tell you what,” Kyle said. “Find something with no words in it.”
“But I’m in the mood for blues. I want to hear that one where the guy says it’s nobody’s business if he wakes up crazy and kills his baby.”
“Take a nap.”
“Hey! Welcome to Louisiana.”
Kyle checked his watch.
“You ever been to Mardi Gras?” Swin asked.
“I’m not sure.”
Many towns whizzed past. Lots of churches. Lots of food stands. A black man with no shoes holding something that was on fire.
They pulled up to the trailer and honked four times. The door cracked open and an arm waved them in. Kyle lugged the balls in like Santa Claus, and a swarthy guy in slippers cut the bag open and began puncturing the underinflated spheres one by one, his knife tearing through the glossy vinyl.
“In my country,” he said, “is rude not to study something you buy. You like Capri Sun?”
Swin said, “Sure.”
“We buy bulk. We’re sick of them. Poking that straw is an American stupidity. The juice, it squirts out.”
“We?” said Kyle.
The man stopped tearing up the soccer balls. “My nephew.” He called the name Nick. “Bring juice pouch this minute.”
A kid about high-school age appeared and tossed Swin a Capri Sun. The kid shook his head, as if daunted by the thought of getting rid of all the Capri Sun in his stewardship. He had close-set eyes and slicked hair, like an old-fashioned immigrant. As he left the room, he grunted something in Greek that caused his uncle to fly off the sofa, knife still in hand. Kyle stood and said, “Easy.” The man looked at the weapon in his hand.
“Look how rude. I wave this thing. Nick, speak English in front of friends. You know only curses, anyway. Let them see you or they get nervous. They don’t know how harmless you are.”
Nick doubled back into the room, leaned on the wall, and began messing with the wristbands he wore on each forearm. Kyle told the uncle not to worry so much about being rude, but instead to hurry up and check the balls and bring out the money. This main room of the trailer contained a sofa, on which the uncle sat, two folding chairs, on which Swin and Kyle sat, several mason jars of pennies, and a stack of license plates. The floor was scattered with slippers.
“His poor papa drove a tow truck,” the uncle said. “The least noble profession of the world. Even police are sometimes noble. Or teachers or singers. Not tow-truck drivers.”
Nick shook his head. His uncle broke a pill open and dumped it in an ashtray. Using a turkey baster, he doused it with a pink liquid.
“His papa told me what great comfort it was he could kill himself. When life was hard, he thought of this. A strange egg, as Americans say. As a child he paid another boy to partake in the carnal act with a dog. Small dog.”
“Dogs enjoy sex with humans,” Swin said. “It would be like you having sex with a super-hot alien.”
Now Nick smiled. Maybe he was slow. Swin held up his empty Capri Sun and Nick took it from him and disappeared. The uncle had two balls left. He sighed, put the knife in a drawer, and brought out a different one.
“What county of Arkansas are you from?”
“Tell him to bring in the money,” Kyle said.
“Sorry, rude question. All these customs.”
“Don’t say the word ‘rude’ again. It’s in my power to pull the deal.”
The guy yelled for his nephew to bring in the bag.
“My plight is horrible one,” he said. “I only ask what county because I once designed water towers. Fifty-one towers for Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas. Now the fashion changes. No new towers. Now I’m not noble. Now I am threatened by men in my home.”
Kyle nodded. “Could be worse. If he doesn’t get that bag out here in a hurry, it could get worse.”
The man called out again and Nick came in with the bag and gave it to Swin, who opened it and took a look. Nick’s grin was amused. He wasn’t slow. In fact, something about him was condescending. As Kyle and Swin left the trailer, the uncle said, “No hard feelings.”
Kyle replied, “No feelings at all.”
Swin drove. Kyle reclined his seat and wondered about Nick, about why someone would subject themselves to such shit. It was a matter of time, Kyle thought, before that kid offed his uncle and ate him. That head shaking was pure maniac. Swin said whoever was driving made the rules about the radio, then tuned in a folk station that was begging for donations. Kyle wondered about the nation of Greece, about the field of water-tower design, about what it would be like to have an uncle. He drifted and had a dream in which he tried to relax in a breezy place. A resort. He didn’t know the name of the drink he wanted to buy for an older woman.
It was not easy for Nick to follow the Taurus in a Datsun hatchback with an 85-horsepower engine. Several times, he had to scream his roller skate of an automobile and close in on the Taurus to see the stuffed Razorback in the rear window, wearing a #4 jersey. If these two dudes from Arkansas knew he was trailing them, they weren’t going to let on. The blinkers of the Taurus flashed only when the car moved from right to left, and its speed was sporadic. Nick was burning up, his insides cramping. He calmed himself with the thought of having enough money to move somewhere rugged where he would get a certificate to be an X-ray tech, keep a clean trailer, and head down to the bar once a week with fresh fingernails. People would say he was a regular dude—run-of-the-mill, good dude. Nick didn’t know why he hadn’t been able to kill his uncle before he left. He suspected his uncle had some kind of slave grip on his mind. The guy had told everyone in their town that Nick was lazy and stole, preventing him from getting a job at the mug factory or the outfit where they put ketchup and mustard in packets. He talked Nick’s father down at every turn, though Nick’s father had supported him for years while he was out of work, before he found his way into the drug trade. For a solid year, until he got bored with it, Nick’s uncle had called Nick “Prickolas.” Nick wasn’t quite eighteen. His uncle had reminded him every day that if he left he’d be reported missing, tracked down, and dragged back in disgrace. On this outing, though, Nick would have the means to get as far away as his Datsun would take him. By the time anyone found him, he’d be the lawful owner of a nice adult life. Because of his maturity, folks would know he’d been through something. It was common knowledge that women liked a dude who’d been through something.
Two hours from home, Nick realized he’d never driven this far. He should’ve brought a tape player because the radio in his Datsun didn’t work. A voice in his head sang bits of the song “Honesty” at a sped-up pace. How was the word “honesty” easy? Easy to spell? Easy to do? The rhythm of the song conformed to the bump and hum of the tires against the road, and Nick couldn’t shake it. His face was sweating. He’d already rubbed his forehead raw against his wristbands. Deep breaths were what was called for. Nick wanted coffee. He hadn’t drunk it since he was a kid, since his father gave him sips from a metallic thermos. The Taurus was never going to stop for gas. It had settled in behind a semi in the right lane. Nick thought of his uncle’s gun in the glove box. It was tarnished black and prone to kick down and left, but at short range it would get the job done. He imagined getting pulled over, having his gun confiscated, getting returned, in cuffs, to his uncle’s trailer. He banished the thought that he’d be relieved.
The Taurus broke onto a two-lane county road and suddenly Nick wasn’t anxious. He felt himself to be a natural detail of the place. Dawn was starting. Nick was surrounded by broken-top hills. The Taurus pulled into a park with a funny name and Nick parked outside the gate and killed his lights, tossed his sopping wristbands on the floor. He had a sixteenth of a tank of gas. He shut off the engine. He had a book bag that had been given to him by a charity which had also given him a set of rulers. He put his gun in the book bag, which already held a hammer and a tangle of thick shoelaces, and waited about five minutes, giving the dudes from the Taurus a chance to feel safe. Nick did
n’t know if they were going to camp in the park or if they had a meeting scheduled or what, but this park probably had only one entrance, so they wouldn’t be able to leave without Nick knowing about it. He entered the park on foot and headed down a path blocked off by a gate with a sign that read PARK EMPLOYEES ONLY. He scaled a dry hill scarred with stump holes.
From the top, he saw a Bronco and a low, expansive house. No sign of the Taurus. Lights on in the house. Nick descended the hill and hid behind the Bronco. He needed to observe, to find out what was waiting in there. An old lady with a bunch of sons? A Confederate militia? There was nothing inside the Bronco—no music or food containers or corny objects hanging from the rearview. There were, however, fresh tire tracks up the drive and back down, and a set of footprints to the porch and back. After about two minutes of observation, Nick felt like a sitting duck. He scaled the porch steps without creaking them and positioned himself outside the front door. TV. An announcer who was maybe Scottish was explaining the financial straits of some rugby league. As far as Nick could figure, the dudes in the Taurus had dropped something here, whether it was his uncle’s money or something else of value. Nick would’ve rather had cash, but a good amount of drugs, if that’s what it had to be, would work. When he went inside and encountered this dude, whether it was some thorny chief runner or pumped skinhead or just some loser like Nick’s uncle, Nick wouldn’t let on that he didn’t know what he was looking for. He tried the door handle and the lever yielded to his thumb. He unzipped his book bag and removed the gun, pressed it against his thigh. He nudged the door open an inch, his body snug against it, and took a moment to breathe—not stalling. He wasn’t going to stall. He put his eye to the opening and saw part of a large room—books everywhere in uneven stacks, the television. Nick let the door open another foot and yanked himself inside. He was stopped short by the sight of a hulking cabinet stocked with dozens of identical liquor bottles, all half-empty. He shut the door behind him and slipped into the nearest room, weapon at the ready. The room was blank, yellow, with no closet and a fan in the corner. Nick peered down the long hall before taking the next room, also yellow, matching the other except that it held a shiny vacuum with countless accessories. The machine was like an injured animal, plug hanging half out of the socket, tubing draped about like maimed limbs. Nick was scared to turn his back on the thing. He paced farther down the hall and halted at the next open doorway. In the same glance, his eyes found the stack washer and dryer, trisection laundry basket, cardboard box full of light bulbs, lopsided hill of pamphlets, and the bald man down on one knee, holding a broom and dustpan. It took what felt like a long time for the man to transfer his attention from the floor to Nick and his pistol. When he did, his eyes lit up.
“I don’t mean to die before I whip these shavings.”
Nick was out of his league, but the man didn’t know that. Nick instructed him to empty his hands and remove his boots and socks. The man did this, yawning, then cracked his toes. Nick put him on his front and tied his wrists behind his back with shoelaces, led him to the first bedroom, the one with the fan, where the man got back down on his stomach without being told.
“Fetch a couple chairs from the kitchen,” he said. “I ain’t heading nowhere.”
Nick got one chair from the kitchen, put the man in it, tied his ankles.
“Time is a consideration,” the man said. “Go ahead and tell me what you want.”
“I’ll decide what’s a consideration,” Nick said. He pulled the hammer from his bag.
“I got seventy bucks in my wallet.”
Nick swung the hammer at the man’s abdomen, stepping into it, and though no jarring shock seized the handle, a loud crack was heard, the man’s hip bone. The man sucked air through his teeth. Nick swung again, not aiming this time, and the hammer thudded into the flesh of the man’s upper arm. This time, his grunt had a higher pitch.
“My name is Bright.” His feet were shaking. “It’s only decent I tell you, I’m a state employee.”
“This hammer is a Craftsman. If I wear it out, I can trade it in for a new one.”
Nick was impressed with himself. He went to the kitchen to brew coffee and found the maker already set up. All he had to do was flip it on and wait for the first drops to dink in the pot. Nick found a mug that read I HATE THE LONGHORNS FROM THE TIME I WAKE UP. He knew he couldn’t indulge the situation too far. In the past minutes he’d found something he was good at, something that came to him. He felt smart. When the coffee maker quieted, he poured some. It was like sludge. He added a lot of milk and tasted the bitter stuff, dumped it in the sink and turned off the pot. At the far end of the hall he found the master bedroom, got a wire hanger from the closet, and straightened it. He strolled back into the room with Bright.
“I don’t lie to folks in the business,” Bright told him. “I’m expecting guests for breakfast.”
“I can tell that’s not true.”
Bright was slumped in the chair now, favoring his battered hip. He was focused but distant, like he wanted to fall asleep with his eyes open. “Done in by an adolescent,” he said.
“When your father dies, you’re no longer a kid.”
“My father died young. I was happy about it, though.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“Where you from, son? At least tell me that.”
“Castor, Louisiana.”
“Castor?”
“I followed the dudes in the Taurus.”
“You followed them? Who was driving?”
“The shorter one.”
“The beige one?”
Nick nodded.
“You two worked something out, huh? You worked something out with Swin, didn’t you?”
“They didn’t know about it.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Bright said. “Swin couldn’t face me for the dirty work.”
“This is my dirty work and I wouldn’t do anybody else’s.”
“Kyle’s over there snoring and Swin’s lying in a pool of sweat, straining to hear a pop.”
Nick paused. “They live in the park?”
“What’s the state of things when a person like me can be disgusted?”
Nick felt it slipping away. Bright didn’t seem hurt anymore. Nick had lost his mystery. He bent for the hammer and turned with a low, compact swing that shattered his captive’s shin. Bright’s body twitched from its core.
Nick waited for Bright to settle a bit, then he brandished the hanger.
“Don’t you think Swin has the money if he’s producing this picture?”
“I don’t want to hear Swin or the other one’s name one more time. I know you got a stash in this place and you’re going to give it to me.”
“So you can waste it on junior college? You wouldn’t know what to do with my stash.”
Nick wet one end of the hanger and palmed Bright’s bald head like a volleyball. He tapped around the inside of his earlobe with the hanger.
“You’re not bluffing,” Bright said.
“You figured that out?”
“I’ve never been tortured before.”
Nick felt resistance and pressed the hanger in, causing Bright to gasp and jerk his head. The hanger tinked across the floor.
“Nowhere near the other side,” Nick said.
“I’ve had enough. Jesus, I’ve had my fill. I’ll give you what you want.”
Nick hurried to the kitchen for a glass of water and dumped it on Bright’s head. He asked where the money was and Bright’s answer was ready: the attic. Inside an air duct. He could fish it out with one hand, but nobody else would be able to, even with instructions. About fifty grand.
In the hall, Nick pulled down the staircase and held Bright steady as he scaled it, wincing with each step on his wrecked leg. Nick then secured his gun in his waistband and climbed up and sat Bright down on a rafter. Nick was hunched over and could barely breathe the brittle air. On first glance, he saw no air duct. There was one light bulb and no windows. Brig
ht told him to free his right hand and tie his left to his belt loop behind him, and to move a box of pink flyers and the terra cotta pots.
Nick saw his future, saw himself crossing leaning wheat fields, the Rockies coming into view, sunflowers behind him and snow ahead, stacks of hundred-dollar bills in his book bag. He leaned farther over and took Bright by the arm to turn him, and then they were stumbling. Nick felt a beam smack the back of his head. He landed on his ass, groped to get the gun from his waist. Bright managed a sideways lunge and his weight fell on Nick’s legs. Nick squeezed the trigger, the gun kicking wildly. Bright was bleeding all over Nick’s lower half. Another hand was on the gun. Bright’s arms were loose, though one was pinned beneath him, and with his free hand he twisted the gun to crush Nick’s fingers. Bright had the barrel. Nick wanted to catch him in the face with an elbow, but he was inches out of reach. The gun was wrenching Nick’s fingers, breaking his will to hold on. He hoped his knuckles had a plan of their own, but no. There was a second of relief when the steel slipped free, and then warmth coursed through Nick’s shoulder. He wondered what he’d do next, was surprised to see his arms extended, pinning Bright’s hand, the gun fast against the floor. Bright had fired twice. One bullet went into Nick and one bore a perfect circle in the roof, through which light poured in and rested on Bright’s bald head.
“I always thought I’d die outdoors,” Bright said. “I don’t know why. Just a feeling.”
“We’re not dead.”
“Oh, no?”
“We’re okay.”
“That’s the rest of your life talking.”
Nick kicked and tried to roll Bright off, but the two of them were wedged between rafters on a bed of insulation. Their blood was mixing. It felt to Nick like he was pissing his pants. He couldn’t feel his arm, couldn’t feel anything but his heart, which kept forcing its red leak. Maybe Bright would die first. Nick waited. He watched the blue hole full of light. He grew comfortable with the itching, dozed off. At least an hour passed. Bright’s eyes were shut but he was still breathing and was still intent on his death grip. It seemed he was going to speak. Nick resolved not to answer him. Bright opened his eyes long enough to find Nick’s and mumbled something about dreaming of tits.
