“I want you to understand because when Larry comes, he’s going to say things to hurt you. He’s been cra—”
“Say it! Would you? You had affairs when I was growing up? You cheated? He cheated? He beat you? What?”
“Baer is your father. I think I still love him.”
Mae was still. Her ears rang. Her vision narrowed. She thought of the kiss, and Baer’s revulsion. “So that’s why he’s been buying groceries. Spending time with the kids.”
Ruth shook her head. “No.”
“Baer doesn’t know?”
“No.”
Mae lifted her hand to block her mother’s words and backed from the kitchen. Her legs were lead. She had the paper to finish. To start. Bree screamed and Morgan giggled and Joseph wailed. Mae’s head swam. Baer was her father? She crossed into the living room and turned to the steps. She looked at her mother’s eye and said, “Let yourself out.”
“Mae, please.”
“Does Dad—does Larry know?”
“He was going to come here to tell you.”
“Why? Why now?”
“He’s snapped,” Ruth said. “He’s been stalking me.”
“How long has he known?”
“The beginning.”
“You’re sure?”
“There is no way Larry ever thought he was your father.”
“I need to throw up. Please go.”
Chapter Twenty
It’s morning and I’m late to rise. Took a piss at sunup, gandered through the woods for an early-morning sniper. Made me wonder if I oughtta check them traps I set out by the Hun blind.
Fred snores. While I was up I snuck a hand under the wool blanket and he was plenty warm. Besides the blanket he sleeps on, he’s got another around the whole box, and then another folded on top of that. Not taking any chances with his condition making him weak, though truth told, he gets up as much as he wants. What’s it been? Three week? He breathes natural, and soon I’ll pull the stitches out his chest. Rest of him, save his eyes, looks normal. He’s got emotional problems, but his body’s come along.
Fred can sleep much as he wants. Me, no matter how I twist they’s a gap in the sleeping bag lets the sun creep through, and once I wake I can’t lay more’n a few minute.
That beating the other night didn’t break me. Hell no. Anything but. Them boys thought they’d teach me something about my place in the world, and they sure as hell did.
They beat the shit out of me and they think I’m broke. All they did was steel my mind. My place according to them is eking out a living selling shine, and one day I’ll die in the woods and no one’ll be the wiser. But I live in the woods because it beats what the world’s got to offer. I come and go as I want. Answer to nobody.
I’m thinking all this from the warmth of my bag, pissed off at sunlight.
A horn lets out at the house.
It ain’t ‘til I climb out the bag and set about getting my clothes that I feel the full measure of the work Stipe’s friends did. My chest and back is hammered and my kidneys push a sick feeling through me. Sitting up, all my blood sluices to my feet and I’m dizzy. I brace my hands on my knees. Once my heart realizes I mean to see about the house, everything steadies out.
I take the Smith from where I left it when I bedded down, beside the old boot I use for a pillow, and strap it on.
Each step brings out another grumble or deepens one I thought I had a handle on. Time I come upon the house, I wonder if they’s a single stretch of me ain’t bruised or busted.
From inside I look out the window. It’s Pete Bleau. They’s a passenger in the truck, hid in cigar smoke. No red comes from either. No juice.
Must be after the apple.
Pete rolls his window and cigar smoke billows out. His passenger is Butch, his dog.
“You got to know I don’t appreciate you dumping that brandy in my face—but as it turns out moonshine don’t make you blind, even straight in the eyes.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come after that brandy,” Pete says. He looks me over head to toe. “You look like pan-fried chicken shit.”
“How many gallon?”
“Of chicken shit? Twenty, minimum.”
“Of brandy.”
“Six for starters. Left your humor inside?”
“Got it beat out of me. Maybe that’s why you’re in such damnable good spirits.” I hold out my hand. “Money first.”
His eyebrows dip. He squirms his arm behind his back. Comes out with a wallet and fishes bills. Counts thirty-six. Butch twists away from looking out the side window. His eyeballs is bloodshot.
“You said six gallon,” I say. “That’s sixty.”
He pulls more bills and hands em through the window. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Roll down the other window. Your dog’s stoned.”
Inside the house I grab jugs from a downstairs rack agin the cement-block wall. If they knew how easy it’d be to rob me a lot of these fellas would. Never lock the doors and I spend ten month a year in the woods. Make a point of always coming out the house, but the chain of thoughts gets me thinking.
Two jugs in each hand and it’s as much as I can stand to haul.
“You get lost in there?” Pete says.
“Fuck you, Pete.”
I tuck the jugs in the hay lining the truck bed. Pete’s rolled down the side window for Butch. I return for the last two jugs. When I come out with em Pete’s got a thought taking shape on his lips.
“What?”
“This ass-beating you took… anything to do with that dog of yours? And Stipe?”
I tuck the last two jugs under straw. “You talk to Stipe? That it?”
“Ain’t seen him.”
His eyes say he’s playing it straight. “Why you bring Butch today?”
“It ain’t that I think anybody’d take him. But why take the chance?”
“They bust in people’s houses?”
“Why not? Stipe’s got the police chief at the fights most every week.”
“You’d think they’d have enough sense to steal dogs from some other town.”
“Nah. This is the town they got sewed up.”
“Yeah.” I push off the truck. “Something else on your mind?”
“They beat you other night, didn’t they?”
I don’t got to answer.
“I was at the barber shop this morning. Heard bits and pieces.”
“From?”
“Frank.”
“Frank?”
“Murdoch.”
“Ah.”
“They got more in store, Baer. They plan on hurting you but good.”
“How’s that?”
“Dunno. But it’s big. Murdoch made it sound like the end times for one man only. You do something special, set em off?”
“I ask myself why some shithead would want to steal my dog in particular, and all I come up with is some folks enjoy evil. Some men slap around they women. Some start wars. Anywhere you go they’s men ain’t happy ’less they got a foot on some slob’s neck. But I ain’t done anything special. Been minding my own business thirty—”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah. Well keep your eyes open.” Pete starts the truck engine. “You got them boys riled.”
“Thanks, Pete.”
He nods, and backs the truck. His grimace says he thinks this’s the last he’ll see of me.
Chapter Twenty One
Walking helps my bones. They’s no particular ache worse than the rest; I got an overall ass-whoopin that’ll take considerable spiritual intervention to rectify. So I brought two flask of the spirit and the first is already empty.
Brisk day. I keep my hands in my pockets and my eyes on my feet. Lots to think about on the way to see Mae. Make sure Cory Smylie ain’t retaliated.
She always had the brightest hair. That’s the first I thought when I saw Ruth with her—that and the shock that Ruth was at me and Larry’s house, and had a baby�
� and was thick in the neck and arms, everywhere.
I’d gone to the city and found work rebuilding diesel engines on the big rigs. They put me in a bay with a set of tools and a 1962 F-model Mack, told me to tear it down and by the time I’d put it back together I’d have my schooling. Boss was a crusty jarhead served in Korea, liked to get to the point of things. I didn’t have nothing better’n work to do and I was there all day, every day, close to two years. Found a bunk-house nearby and saved every penny.
I stood looking at Ruth and Mae and my fingers tingled. I thought about a score of letters Ruth’d writ asking me to come home, declaring her loyalty. She stood with Mae in her arms and her eyes was clear, and sparkled with tears.
They was no red at all.
A truck rolls by, slows as the driver takes a long look at me. It’s a chubby girl in a Nissan; she’s got a chin puts me in mind of those flat-faced Macks I worked on, with a chrome bumper all the way to the ground. I don’t know her and she keeps moving—but even just seeing me on the road shoulder, she’s brewing deceit.
The world’s a thundercloud moves as fast as a man walks, and no faster.
Larry stood beside Ruth and he glowed red. Sparks shot from my fingers; my joints had an extra jolt, like the juice made me stronger. Don’t remember crossing the dirt. Only got off one punch before Ruth cut between us, with Mae in her arms. Mae screamed and Ruth sobbed, and Larry bounced off the wall.
Ruth stood her ground.
I shook, so befuddled I couldn’t ask a question. No one said anything, but the electric was all the communication I needed. I stepped back from the porch and missed the plank. Landed on my ass and it rattled me loose from wanting to murder my brother. He came around Ruth and stood above me, shaking. Blood on his lip. Ruth ran in the house.
I was on my elbows. I fished all the money I’d saved in two years from my pocket, peeled off two twenties and threw the rest at Larry. Money roll bounced off’n his chest and landed in the dirt.
“This’s my house now,” I said. I could’ve kicked his ass or I could’ve gone after Ruth to win her back. But doing either would’ve given him the power over me. In that moment and every sober second since—most of the drunk ones too—all I wanted was to get out from under that storm cloud.
“You can’t have the house,” Larry said.
“If I get off the ground before that money does, one us is dead inside a minute.”
Larry studied me. Ruth stood behind the screen. Larry wasn’t moving, and my blood was boiling. I pulled my legs back and shifted to my side.
Ruth came out the door, jostled around Larry, and swooped to the money. A small diamond gleamed on her finger. She pulled Larry by the arm. I sat and listened to em argue inside the house, and tried to add facts that couldn’t no-how go together.
All those letters. Lovey-dovey words. Faith-filled poems. Stories of recent small town events that meant nothing save the beauty of being writ in her hand. Updates on the weather. She’d never once said, “I went back to Larry and had a baby. So fuck you and get the hell out my life.”
Eventually I got in the Nova and backed into the turnaround. I sat on the hood and smoked a cigarette. Larry come out with a box and Ruth followed. Back and forth, they loaded the truck.
Pulling out the drive, Larry slowed beside me. Without meeting my eye he said, “We got more stuff to move. So don’t you go in yet.”
He was gone. She was gone. But I had the house. Spent that night in the woods at the very spot the still sits now.
*
I’m at Mae’s. The drive’s empty. I rap the door and Morgan pulls it open. She’s in my arms, twisting my hair and nuzzling my neck. Now Bree’s here—got purple jelly on the sides her mouth. She puts a finger to her lips and shushes me. Throws a bear hug around my knee, steps on my feet and I walk her inside.
Mae’s doing dishes. Joseph sleeps in the other room on the sofa, snugged agin the back pillow. They’s two glasses at the table and two plates with the remains of a PBJ-and-milk lunch. Mae finally brings her eyes to me. I don’t expect she’s too comfortable after planting that smooch.
“What happened to you?” She dries her hands in a dish-towel and comes closer. She hesitates.
“You got a little time?”
She takes my hand.
I say, “You keep up with your mother?”
“Why? Did she do this to you?”
“What to me?”
She touches my cheek with her open hand; eases her thumb across my cheekbone. Aches like hell.
“That’s nothing.” I ease her hand away.
She squints like a mother.
“Wanted to ask about Ruth.”
“What are the odds?” She shakes her head, gives a smile reads like a wince. “Mom’s been by.”
“Been here? I don’t reckon I come up in the conversation?”
Mae takes Morgan from my arm and stands her on the floor. Leads me outside.
“She say something bad?”
Mae sits on a lawn chair with frayed nylon straps. I take the other.
“She hasn’t known what to make of you for years. Why are you asking now?”
Why am I asking? I want to know if they’s any hope of redeeming a love affair died the day I saw Mae in her mother’s arms. I’m getting old. Had the shit beat out of me. Considering action that’ll land me in hell or heaven, one. Reached my breaking point and ready to holler so loud they hear me in Idaho.
“Nothing special. I think on her now and again.”
“You two were an item, back in the day.”
“You heard ’bout the day?”
“A little.” Mae gleams pink, and it’s unusual enough I got to study her in the eye. “What, Uncle Baer?”
“Nothing.” The pink is faint like mother-a-pearl, and kind of pulses like a heartbeat. “You can tell me the truth,” I say.
The pink vanishes.
Twenty Two
“She thinks she still loves you.”
I stand and my knee pops and the lawn chair falls over. Mae ain’t one to lie much but I won’t believe it. Should’ve braced myself for some such stupidity, on account of seeing the pink. Maybe they’s both liars—something in the blood, come from her mother, that makes a full-throated lie look like a whisper.
If that was true maybe one damn time she’d have writ a letter. Maybe when I walked all the way to Mars Hill and watched her three days, and finally struck the nerve to say hello, she’d have done more than run away. Maybe she’d have said, “Hello, Baer, I love you.”
If she was in love all this time, she wouldn’t have bedded my pencil-pushing pencil-necked gets his stones off in the woods watching animals die brother.
“What’s gotten into you?” Mae says.
I go into the house and check the cupboards because that’s all I can think to do. Make sure she has enough food, then she can go to hell. Bree’s got wide eyes and Morgan looks caught doing something wrong. They study me keen.
“You two got enough food?”
Course they do. Never ate better. Every cupboard’s like I left it. Only been a few days… Ruth’s in love with me my royal English ass.
Footsteps. Mae’s at the kitchen.
“Baer!”
“I come to make sure you had plenty of food. Cory Smylie been here?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I shoulder past. Leave the front door open because if I closed it I’d throw it off its hinges.
I’m a mile down the road and her words still play. “She loves you.”
Well who the hell are you to know?
Don’t recall asking.
So I guess I ain’t the only one can’t see when she’s lying.
Well shit, what if I don’t love her no more?
What if I never loved her, and all we had was a bunch of car sex? Hell, I can’t remember anything else. What if I hang onto her memory so I don’t have to write off the whole human race, and I don’t want her to love me back? Did you ever think
of that? Stupid assed meddling woman.
I’m three hundred yards from the house and the still, and a windshield glints through the trees. Somebody’s parked in the drive, and another truck is alongside the road.
A rifle echoes. I pick up the pace. Another shot.
Fred.
Somebody come back for Fred.
Smith flaps on my hip. I yank it out and squeeze the grip. Move fast as I can without stretching a run. Back of my heart I know I’m late. Someone got two shots at a blind dog. Ain’t likely he missed.
No, my hurry’s to make sure he don’t get away with it. That’s what I tell myself so I can ease off my pace and lighten the strain on the pounder in my chest.
The truck on the side of the road is white.
I duck into the woods. Weave through brush. Metal clashes on metal and two more gunshots echo. First noise was an ax, someone having a good time with my still. Second blast was a shotgun.
I’m fifty yards out, coming from behind. Three fellas—two with long guns and one with an ax. The ax man’s knocked the cooker from its blocks and he’s going to town on the sides.
I stop at a tree. Aim with both hands, shaking so bad I rest my left wrist agin the bark.
Shit. That ain’t Stipe’s crew.
That’s Mercer, agent works between the revenue service and the state force for likker law enforcement. Don’t know the other two. Mercer maybe borrowed em from some other jurisdiction.
These men might not know Fred’s at home. He’s more’n likely tucked in a puddle a piss, shivering quiet inside his box under the tarp. Surely to God these revenuers didn’t come to whack a dog?
I point Smith at the ground. Ease the hammer forward and slip Smith in my holster. Anything wrong with Fred, they’ll be teeth in the dirt. Hands up, I step out from the tree. “Hey, boys.”
The two gunmen draw stocks to shoulders.
“Easy, Mercer,” I call. “Easy.”
I cover the distance slow, let em gather they minds. They got the power and they know it, so I don’t see any red.
“Hey, Mister Creighton… ” Mercer says. “Thought you’d have run.”
I come within they circle. The still’s fulla shotgun and ax holes. The copper tube’s hacked in pieces, nice clean cuts, like he sit it on a log for support. Doubler’s split. They’s four barrel of mash with holes through the sides, and fermented corn and apple soup spills out and soaks the ground. The air stinks of rot, sweet with sugar and heady with undistilled shine.
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