He jingled the keys in his fingers while he spoke. Ray reached for the door handle slowly, but Walt said, “Stay put,” and got out on his own side, came around to Ray’s door and flung it open. He grabbed Ray’s shirt and dragged him out.
There was an old drink cooler with the glass busted out of the front against the back wall. Walt pushed Ray against the side of it face first so he couldn’t see anything. He was crying and hated himself for it, tried to suck it in. His teeth chattered like he was freezing.
“I’m gonna slip my arm around your neck, and it’ll be a snap. That’s all,”
“Please, don’t kill me.”
“Stop it,” Walt said, mouth close to Ray’s ear, whispering, “I don’t like that begging stuff. Don’t make it worse.”
Ray heard another car drive up and stop. A car door opened and a man’s voice said, “Let go of the kid, Walt.”
The arm around Ray’s neck loosened its grip, slid off and then away. He turned and saw the brown Chrysler angled behind the minivan, a brown-haired man in uniform aiming a gun at Walt.
Walt said, “Now you show up?”
“Didn’t I say wait until I pulled the van over?” The man said.
“I couldn’t wait that long. Lying back there was creepy.”
Ray thought this must be the guard who helped Walt get out. The man brought the gun down, and Walt sat on the dirt.
“You were going to break his neck?” The guard said.
Walt shrugged. “Needed the clothes.”
“But you didn’t have to paw him like that, asshole.” The guard waved the gun towards Ray and said, “Get naked. Take the clothes off.”
“You don’t have to kill me anymore. Just let me go now, it’ll be cool. You don’t have spare pants?” Ray said.
The gun arm straightened, had a hard aim on Ray. “Take them off.”
Ray stripped off his shirt, undershirt, then his deck shoes, socks, and jeans, kicked them towards Walt.
“Underwear, too.”
He slipped his briefs off and stood with his arms crossed. The guard shot him in the head and chest. Ray dropped to the ground, twitched, rustled some leaves, then lay still and died.
Walt was halfway changed into Ray’s clothes. “That’s a mess.”
“Help me get him into the van,” the guard said. He was sorry Ray had to die, but he couldn’t have any witnesses, since it was Walt he wanted to kill. Wanted to kill Walt like the son of a bitch had killed his niece. First a kidnapping, which was about five minutes away, then a rape, for which the guard had the perfect steel pole at the destination, and finally the throat slicing, but the guard had other places he wanted to cut before he got that far.
Walt finished dressing, came over and grabbed Ray’s feet. They lifted him into the back on the stretcher.
“Keys?” The guard said.
Walt tossed them over and jumped out the back. “We taking two cars?”
“I’m leaving the car. It can’t be traced anyway.”
The guard had used a fake name to get the prison job so there would be no way to connect him to the girl’s family. He’d gotten friendly with Walt, despite how sick that made him feel. And he had gotten the doctor in on it, too. Became friends with the guy—went to his church, drank with him. The guard had given Walt a couple vitamin pills, told him it would make him look dead. The doctor came in, played along, and there they were. All because the jury had given Walt thirty years instead of life or the death penalty. He even had a chance at parole. But not anymore.
The guard climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked up. Walt sat beside him and complained about the clothes being too tight. Both thought the same thing: Won’t be long until I can get rid of this guy.
CHILE
Ben’s mom Honor called him the night she got back from her vacation to Chile, telling him it was so much nicer and safer than America. And just as modern: “All those missionary slides were lies,” she said.
He was three hundred miles away in his apartment, in the college town where he was chasing a Ph.D. in physics, typing a paper with the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder.
Honor said, “I have some videos. I’m telling you, it’s beautiful down there. You’re not going to believe it. I went to a carnival.”
“I believe it. I’m coming home this weekend, and you can show me.”
“Your dad won’t watch. It’s starting to piss me off how he’ll watch baseball for hours but is too tired to look at my videos.”
Ben closed his eyes and rolled his neck, grabbed the phone before it slipped. “It’s the stress. He’ll be fine.”
“He’s jealous I went and had a good time. Really, I didn’t want to come back.”
Ben thought about the times he talked to his dad while his mom was gone. He had been depressed, moping like a lost kid in Wal Mart. Ben’s sister Jackie said he had watched too much History Channel, didn’t cook, took her out for a lot of Chinese dinners. He was looking at a new job in New Orleans, too. He wanted to move, but Honor didn’t. All tension. Trips home were now less frequent and Ben didn’t want to go this time but he had made promises.
*
When Honor met Ben at the door with a hug, she was wearing Chilean slippers with her black sweatsuit that didn’t work with her frizzed blonde hair.
“Just in time. You have to help me copy the videos. I have to mail them to Dorothy tomorrow,” she said.
The house was still new for Ben. His parents and sister moved there eight months before, north from Biloxi into the country. It was the first family house where he didn’t have his own room, but instead had to take the guest room where they kept the mismatched sheets, the small TV and the weight bench. The L-shaped house had hardwood floors and not enough light. Big rugs, wicker chairs beside old rockers, a brown couch. But now there were the Chilean touches—bottles of wine on the China cabinet, some dolls, fans, crackers, cookies on the kitchen bar, quilts across the back of the couch and love seat.
Ben looked into the dim living room. Steven, his dad, lazed on the couch in khakis and unbuttoned dress shirt, legs stretched and ankles crossed. They nodded at each other. Steven was watching TV; deep voices which meant war documentary. He had cut his hair short and shaved his mustache since Ben’s last trip. It made him look old and clean. It was a religious thing—Steven returning to the Pentecostal church in which his mother had raised him. She died last year and he got nostalgic at the funeral. Now he was playing drums at the services. He wanted Honor to attend with him, but she wouldn’t except for singings or dinners and maybe an occasional Sunday so he would stop asking for a while.
Honor cooked dinner: steak, baked potatoes, garlic bread. After dropping his bags, washing his face and glasses, Ben sat at the table with his parents and Jackie. She was seventeen—silly makeup, crocheted shirt, baggy jeans. Lately, Jackie seemed usually sad, but she talked faster and with energy when Ben talked to her about anime, pop bands, astronomy, and her boyfriends. She looked at the food and whispered, “At least it’s not more Chile crap.”
When Honor set the plate in front of Steven, she asked, “Do you want the Fifty-Seven?”
“I’ll have to taste it first and see if I need it.”
“You’ll need the sauce if it’s bad?”
“Let you know in a second.” Steven hunched low, forked the steak and cut a bite, put it in his mouth. After chewing, he nodded. “Just a little sauce.”
Honor picked up the bottle from the bar and pounded it on the table in front of Steven’s plate. “How about you try to lie once in a while? It would make me feel better.”
Steven waved a fork between Ben and Jackie. “You don’t say anything to them, and they slather it on.”
“That’s different,” Ben said. “We don’t tell her the steak’s bad.”
Steven said, “It’s not her fault the steak’s bad. It’s Iowa. They’re the ones sending bad meat.”
>
“I’m not hungry now. I’ll microwave mine later,” Jackie said. She took her plate to the bar, dug under pots in the cabinet until she found aluminum foil, then wrapped the plate. She left it and headed for her room.
Ben told his mom about his work, his classes, how he went with friends to 3rd and Goal Bar on Monday nights to watch the football game. They served free hot wings with every purchase of a pitcher of beer. Steven kept quiet and wouldn’t look at Ben, who knew his dad disapproved of the beer and bars now. Steven never liked beer, but he used to drink vodka martinis and smoke pipes. Jackie said there was none of that lately. And the man was fattening up, too.
“Are the wings good?” Honor asked.
“Passable, but they’re hot. Pepper hot. That’s why you need the beer.”
“You know what I had in Chile? They cooked a goat. They killed it first, and it hung on the porch for three days to drain. And it was grilled outside on an open fire. The food was all so good there.”
Steven took a swig of iced tea as he finished up. He hadn’t used the Fifty-Seven. He took his plate to the sink and said, “It was really fine. A fine steak.”
*
Honor wanted Ben to hook up the camcorder to the VCR so she could copy the Chile films. Steven said he would watch baseball in the guest room while they did it. Ben had to watch the tapes while they copied, Honor narrating, reliving. Not so bad, but who were these people?
“Mario and Jorge and Sara, Jorge’s wife. Mario is single, like the you of their family, except clown funny,” Honor said.
She showed Santiago, walking down the street in what looked like an American suburb. Maybe the houses were closer together, but that was all. Stopping at homes and knocking, the family introducing friends to the blonde American visitor. Someone talked Spanish, with an accented Honor thrown in. And the friends would speak to her rapid-fire. Ben saw polite frustration, his mom repeating Spanish words but not getting them, the friends not getting her obviously clear English.
“Your dad watched about this far before stopping. Maybe he didn’t like the dancing. I called him when the museum was on, but he stood for a moment then walked out. What, did he want me to say it was miserable? I’m glad to be home?”
“Maybe he expected you to miss him a little.”
Honor shook her head. “I was too busy. It was only two weeks.”
“You guys haven’t been apart that long for years. He was depressed.”
“That’s just ridiculous.”
Ben knew that was the way his mom’s family had worked, not to help and encourage the depressed or the sad or jealous: Stop the bellyaching and play happy. Honor’s whole upbringing, her parents, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, leaving the wounded behind.
Ben sat on the wicker chair while his mom sat on the floor, inches away from the TV. The camcorder was the small square type with the screen on it, and Honor watched that one, barely glancing at the 35-inch.
“This is the carnival,” Honor said. The tape showed passing crowds and rides. It cut a few times, and then it was night. A band on stage sang in Spanish over a loud mush of instruments, doing salsa-via-eighties’ hair band. Stage lights blotted out much of the action. “This was an Argentina rock band. They were so neat, but I wasn’t in a good spot.”
Steven walked in and stood quietly, hands in pockets. Honor didn’t notice. He listened to the music a half-minute, then said, “I’m taking the trash out.”
“Okay.” Barely a nod from Honor.
“I might sit on the porch a while.”
Nothing. So then a glance at Ben—Really helping me here, sport—before walking outside. Ben stared at the closed door until Honor snapped her fingers at him. “This is La Serena. It looks more poor. But Sara had a nice house.”
Shot of the mountains, shot of the fields. Traveling in a truck. Everything was so gray that the room felt cold. Inside Sara’s house, Honor had filmed the collection of wine bottles on a table in the living room, a small and cluttered place.
Then Ben looked around the living room at the house, the wine bottles and quilts a reflection of the room on the screen. “Did you bring all her stuff back with you?”
“No, but she helped me pick it out. Don’t you like it?”
Jackie slumped into the room with her suede jacket on. It bulked her up. “I want to walk to the gas station and get a Pay Day.”
“Your dad can drive you.”
“I want to walk. Ben can go with me.”
“Yeah, he can.” Honor turned her head. “You won’t miss much if you hurry. The town with the stream that flows right through the middle of it. That’s on the next tape. Didn’t I tell you about it?”
Ben stood and yawned. “I can watch more tomorrow, you know. I’m here all weekend. Give me a sec.”
He jogged to the guest room and grabbed his windbreaker, pushed himself into it on the way down the hall, then swung the front door wide. He looked at Honor.
“You want to come with us?”
She said, “I’ve got these tapes running.”
“Stop them. Ten minutes, twenty. Stop the tape. It’ll be fun.”
She bobbed her head, right, left, right. “Okay. Let me get a sweater.
Jackie punched his arm and flashed a horrified look while mouthing, Why did you do that? What’s wrong with you? She opened the door and waited. When Honor came back, they stepped outside.
Steven was sitting on the porch swing, not swinging. He didn’t show cold except in his breath. Must have been forty degrees out, though.
“Going out?” he said.
Jackie pointed down the street. “Just to get some candy. We’re walking.”
“Ben could drive.”
“It’s freezing,” Honor said.
“We’re walking,” Jackie said, and she just went. Ben caught up, and two houses down, his sister grinned at him. Behind them, Honor followed, and Steven jogged to catch up. She shouted, “Lock the house first.” He ran back and did. Then they lagged a house behind Jackie and Ben on the way.
“Don’t you hate them? Six hours of tape,” Jackie said.
Ben said, “That’s not so bad to sit through. It makes her feel better talking about it.”
“There’s no talking. Me and her, yeah, but they’re not. She acts like he’s invisible.”
“He’s the one being selfish here. What if it was your trip?”
“I’d shut up about it after a while. It’s not the same Mom.” Jackie shoved Ben on the shoulder. “What do you know about it? You’re not even here.”
“I know what she says, and the way it looks.”
“She’s twisting all that, and you’re falling for it.”
They walked on the thin shoulder of grass, stepped around mailboxes and beer bottles. The land was hilly, and houses were up or down from each other, teetering. They crossed abandoned railroad tracks and passed a thin-walled apartment complex. Ben thought about all the people who step in front of trains around this town every year.
He picked up a brown glass beer bottle. He flicked it underhand down the train tracks, watched it skid off a rail and ricochet into the grass. No breaking. He found another half-bottle and went overhand with it, much harder with a taller arc. This time, a sharp high shatter.
“If I could break one off a tree, then glass would shower down. That would be cool.” He looked for another one on the ground, but Honor shouted at him to stop. Ben and Jackie waited for them to catch up.
The light of the nearby gas station sign was bright enough so they could see the road again. One car was parked close but not getting gas. They walked inside, where a black guy in glasses leaned on the counter talking to the cashier, a young black woman with big eyes and short hair. Ben nodded at them. Jackie paced the candy aisle twice, picked up a Pay Day, put it back. She got Slim Jims instead.
“I thought you wanted candy.”
Jackie made a so
ur mouth and said, “I want spicy.”
Steven said, “Everybody gets something. My treat. Get a lot.”
Ben took a Gatorade bottle from the freezer. His mom got a small bag of baked potato chips and a loaf of bread. Steven got a couple of two-liter Diet Cokes and some Corn Nuts. Jackie strolled the candy aisle and picked up the Pay Day again, plus a pack of watermelon bubble gum. They walked up to the counter.
The man leaning on the counter was smiling, working the flattery. The cashier looked skeptical. Steven reached by the guy’s elbow and put the bottles and Corn Nuts on the counter.
The guy turned his head, eyebrows bunched. “I’m a little busy here,” he said.
“You buying something?”
“Maybe I want cigarettes. I haven’t decided.”
The cashier laughed, crossed her arms. Jackie sighed.
Steven said, “How long’s it take to ring out? Twenty seconds?”
The cashier rang up the stuff and said “Two-fifty.”
“No, this too.” Steven waved for everyone to hand him their stuff, which he heaped on the counter. The girl totaled it.
Steven slapped down a twenty. The guy didn’t move his elbows. Inches.
“I’m buying this guy’s cigarettes, too.”
“Hey, are you looking for a fight here?” the guy said.
Steven shook his head as the cashier handed him bagged items. He passed them off one by one to the family. “I don’t want that. Just want to get my stuff and go home. I’m a church going man, and we don’t need to fight.”
“For real?”
“Honest to God. Have a good night, okay?”
Ben took his bag from Steven. They walked out, holding in laughs until the glass door swung shut.
Back on the street, dark again, Jackie tore open the Slim Jim pacakge with her teeth. “Good move, Dad. Try to get us killed next time.”
“What’s he going to do, stab me? They’ve got video in those stores. Look, compared to the universe, even just this world, he’s a blip. Nothing. None of us are.”
The Early Crap: Selected Short Stories, 1997-2005 Page 9
