“It’s only half a suit. Where’s the pants that go with it?”
“Gotta talk to ‘em about the pants,” he said.
107
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!
I chased him off the porch. He ran behind the barn. I hid in the pig shed until he came out, then I went after him. He dashed across the back yard and I was right behind him.
He was a good runner, a good escaper. He had a lot of experience. But I was good too. I’ve always been fast and that cool suit helped me run faster. I chased him all the way to the pond. Twice I almost caught up with him but each time he got up on his rear legs and sprinted ahead. Once I fell in the dirt and that’s when I hurt my elbow.
By the time I got to the pond I was out of breath and it was getting dark. I stopped at the rotten rowboat where the camper rats hung out. That’s where I’d hide, under that upside-down boat. I flipped over the rotten boat with my foot. Nothing, just the old rusty grill and burnt-up charcoal.
Where is that damn rat?
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!
And there he was! Hiding in the bushes next to the old rotten boat, ready to jump me. But I wasn’t going in there after him, not with one bad arm and a warning.
“Come out, Wrestlin’ Rat! I know you’re in there.”
“He-he!” he laughed.
I only wrote down he-he, but he laughed for a long time, a squealy high-pitched laugh that started off with he-he’s and changed to ha-ha’s halfway through. I just don’t feel like writing down all those he-he’s and ha-ha’s.
“What are you laughin’ at, Wrestlin’ Rat?”
“That suit don’t fit.”
“Sure it does. How’d I get it on me?”
“Maybe you put it on when it did fit. Maybe it shrunk in the rain and you can’t get out of it. Reasons don’t always jump out at you. I gotta think about it. . . . Anyway, I’m tired of runnin’. Are you tired of chasin’?”
“I’m real tired of chasin’. I wish I’m the one who’s gettin’ away.”
“Listen to the night,” he said.
And for a while we sat and listened to the night. We listened but we couldn’t hear anything. Not one cricket or a hound dog barking or a far-off radio, not even the cars on 94. I don’t know how quiet the night can get, but it can’t get more quiet than this. It’s what the night sounds like when you take everything else away.
Then the crickets started up again, one at a time, filling in all around.
I rubbed my aching elbow. It’s swelling up now.
“Look at that elbow!” he said. “This ain’t no match for me. Now I gotta win by default, which means I lose. Oh, what am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? All these years we’ve been stretchin’ it out. Your Uncle wins a match, I win the next. We planned it that way. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. I’m finished now. They’re gonna make me retire. It’s everythin’ I ever been and now it’s nuthin’ I can be. You call that winnin’? Well this rat calls it losin’. There’ll be a new Wrestlin’ Rat and then who am I? I’ve been workin’ out too.”
“You been knockin’ harder.”
“I know.”
I sat on a log next to him, but the log was too small. He kicked over another log. I put two logs together and made a pretty good seat.
We talked about our situation. I told him my real name is Walt, not Incredible like it says on my suit. He told me his real name is Wrestling Rat and the next rat’s name is Wrestling Rat. It goes like that. He’s the best wrestler of his generation because he’s not all look and show, but he thought Uncle Brucker was only so-so.
“He’s got the weight advantage but basically he wrestles like a man,” he said.
And he laughed again, that squealy laugh, the kind of laugh you have to watch out or you’ll laugh that way too. The whole bush shook.
Who would win a match between us? It’s hard to say. On one hand, he had the experience. But on the other hand, I was determined to win. Experience vs determination. He thought he would win. I knew I would win—if I had two good arms, that is. With only one good arm it would be a tough match.
He could easily get out of a German Headlock, so he said, but he could be tricking me so I wouldn’t use it on him. He had scratched-knocked on back doors all over the county, looking for a fight, but only Uncle Brucker took him up on his offer.
“And you, Incredible.”
“Not Incredible. Walt.”
“Don’t believe everythin’ men say about miserable rats cause I don’t believe everythin’ rats say about lazy men.”
“The barn is a good place to hide out when you’re scratchin’ up for a fight,” I told him.
“Especially the loft,” he said.
108
We sat and listened to the night again. But now it was a different night filled with crickets and sirens and barking dogs and faroff radios and thunder from a hidden storm. He shook his head and his ears sagged, disappointed. I knew how he felt. We heard everything else but we couldn’t hear the night.
“So, you wanna learn?” he asked.
“OK.”
And he taught me how to scratch-knock.
“Basically it’s an open-fist knock. Knock with the palm of your hand, then scratch down with your fingers. Remember that, you got it down.”
“Like this?”
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!
“There you go. You catch on real quick for a man,” he told me. “Every rat’s got his way of doin’ things, and you can’t always figure it out.”
I said, “That goes for men too.”
And I told him what happened to Uncle Brucker, holed-up in the Rat Factory for days. No food. No water. He had to eat those rat cakes. He had to eat them or he’d starve.
The Wrestling Rat gave me some very good advice.
“The rat inside your Uncle is actin up cause he’s on a reverse schedule,” he said. “He’s up all day, sleepin’ all night, when it should be the other way around. And his eatin’ schedule’s reversed too. It ain’t so easy gettin’ used to somethin’ that’s always been another way, and it’s throwin’ him off balance. The rat inside could be dyin’ for lack of consideration, and if that happens, your Uncle goes with him. So you see, he’s gotta go back through the Portal. If he don’t go by himself, they’ll send an Inspector to take him back. Get that schedule out of reverse and back in order, and everything will balance out. Every man’s got a bit of a rat in him, you just gotta learn to live with it.”
“Everybody?”
“Everybody. Just like every rat’s got a bit of a man in him.
We’re stuck that way, bit parts of each other. But thirty rat cakes, I don’t know. . . . That’s gotta tip the balance.”
“Wrestlin’ Rat, are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
“Depends what you’re thinkin’.”
“I’m thinkin’ nobody’s keepin’ score. And I don’t see no refs around.”
“There ain’t nobody, just us. Even match?”
“That’s what I’m thinkin’.”
Now I heard someone coming from the far side of the pond. Footsteps coming closer, voices getting louder. Kids from Colony Park?
“Goodbye, Wrestlin’ Rat,” I said. “We better go.”
“Yeah we better. Goodbye, Incredible.”
“Not Incredible. Walt.”
“You don’t know who you are. I go by the suit.”
The bush shook and he ran off, scratch-knocking on all the back doors down the road.
109
The rain came with no warning and the wind shook the rain off the trees as I walked back to the old house. I took my time all the way, even when it poured. The Wrestling Rat gave me a whole lot to think about.
Rain is good for thinking and so is walking. Walking moves your thoughts along while the rain washes your mind clear, and that makes for a new kind of thinking.
When you have a lot to consider, and it’s wearing you down, d
o what I do: take a walk in the rain. You’ll be surprised how good you’ll feel when the rain washes everything clean.
I got home and I felt like a fresh new person who saw things in a new way.
And everything was quickly different. The back door suddenly needed a paint job. The hinges had a different squeak. The door latch hung on by one screw. How could I have missed that all these years?
“Hey, Unc!”
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!
“Hear that, Unc?”
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-knock!
“Fooled ya, didn’t I? That’s me scratch-knockin’. It ain’t no rat. I been taking lessons from the master.”
From the kitchen through the living room and into the hall I left a wet foot trail. But I didn’t find my Uncle anywhere on the first floor. The old Rat Killer was probably upstairs.
I called up to him and told him the score, “I won one and he won one, just like always—if you know what I mean. So every-thin’s OK.” And I climbed the stairs. “We got things to talk about, Unc. The Wrestlin’ Rat told me, everybody’s got a bit of a rat in him. Everybody. You and Renata and me. Them government lists don’t mean nuthin’ when you keep that in mind. You can rip them up and throw them in the wind. Whatever’s inside you, you gotta learn to live with it.”
At the top of the stairs I sat down and rubbed my sore elbow. I don’t know why people do that because it doesn’t do much good. It don’t make it worse, so I rubbed it anyway.
‘You can get a little confused when everything comes together,’ Uncle Brucker said. ‘Not everybody’s right all the time because that would make you perfect, and nobody’s perfect. And you can’t figure everything out on your own, either.’
“Hey, Unc. Where are ya?”
Finally I checked the driveway and the Ram was gone.
110
Uncle Brucker didn’t come home Thursday night.
It’s not like him to stay out all night, and when he’s late he’ll leave a note.
I couldn’t sleep. All night I lay on top of my bed with my clothes on and I listened for the Ram. I heard a couple F150s, and an ancient El Camino with a broken tailgate went up and down the hill, but no Ram.
The sun came through the kitchen window and I filled the thermos with coffee. Today I’m tracking down my Uncle. Cross school off my list—but not all the way off. Charlee and I are scheduled to give our report on World War II today. I’ll show up when I find my uncle and I’ll be there when I get there.
First stop: Minks. Maybe he passed out in the corner booth, and Dotty didn’t notice him on her way out last night. I’ll bust through the door and drag him to the Ram and pour him a hot cup.
Don’t give up, I told myself when I saw Mink’s empty lot. I’ll find him somewhere. Or when I come back he’ll be sitting on the porch with a smile and a beer.
After Minks, I checked the strip mall parking lot. Maybe he ran into his old-time drinking buddies, had a good time and passed out in the Ram. Or somebody took him in for the night. It’s happened before. With the rat behind the wheel, he could be anywhere.
It was all too much for the poor old Eagle. It tried but it couldn’t keep up. It wasn’t just age that worked against it. Age held it down while rust punched it out and mileage worked it over. The next hill was a tough one. The Eagle lurched forward and stalled again.
The Eagle could have put in just a little more effort and helped me out, and I wouldn’t be so mad. I drive hard, but you can’t say I’m neglectful.
And I don’t care what anybody says, four quarts of oil is plenty for any car. You want just enough or it’s a waste of money. Pay no attention to the manual, use your brain instead. You can’t overfill anymore than you can under fill.
The real trouble began after I stopped for gas in Otis. I turned the key and it wouldn’t start up. Damn it, Eagle, I’m countin’ on you! I jiggled the key and waited, which works for every other car, but not the Eagle. I pressed the pedal to the floor and pumped the gas and held the shifter in second. It caught on and we rolled along for a while. Then black smoke came up behind me. Engine light went on. Fuck you, Eagle! I know what’s up next.
On 94 West the engine cut out and I pulled the Eagle over for the last time.
About the engine oil: I took two quarts out of the Monte Carlo and put one in the Eagle and one in the Camaro about a month ago. Maybe I should have put both quarts in the Eagle. But that’s not the problem. The engine was dying and it would cut out no matter how many quarts I failed to put in.
I put on the parking brake and left the old clunker R.I.P. on the side of the road.
Here’s what I didn’t do: I didn’t pat the faithful Eagle on the fender like in an old movie, and say “Good bye, pardner. See you later,” with a tear in my eye.
“Fuck you, Eagle!” I said. “You let me down, you shit!”
On the corner, I stuck out my thumb.
One Altima, Accords, a Bronco, next a Subaru, then my father came down the street in the Malibu.
He stopped for the light and put on the right blinker not more than twenty feet from me. A woman with long dark hair sat in the passenger seat. It was Daphne, Raylene’s other sister. She looked out her window and when she saw me she smiled.
My father waited for the light, pissed off as usual about I don’t know what. He shook an angry finger in the air like a conductor who hated the orchestra. Daphne ignored him and winked at me. It was a very nice wink. She’s three years older than Raylene and knows how to wink better.
The light changed. My father made a right on South Main and didn’t see me, and they drove down Middle Road and I stood on the corner with my thumb out.
The Eagle is a shit car.
The shifter pops out at 3,000 rpms if I don’t hold it in. Step on the brakes, the car veers to the right and you can’t stop it. The trunk jams or it won’t close at all. You need a crowbar to pry it open. The muffler has its own volume control. The starter motor works on occasion, so that’s not so bad.
111
Charlee was sitting on the back steps when I got home. She had a bottle of spring water she always carries with her because she won’t drink piped-in water. She set the bottle down on a step and stood up when she saw me in the driveway.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“My Uncle didn’t come home last night,” I told her. “I’ve been looking for him all day. He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t call. Maybe he got drunk and he’s sleeping it off at a friend’s place, I don’t know, and now the Ram is gone and the Eagle’s dead on the side of the road and my father drove by with his new girlfriend and nobody gave me a ride so I had to walk back home.”
Charlee wore a new pair of jeans and a pull-over sweater. She never wore sloppy clothes and she put on extra makeup today because she had to stand in front of the class and give a report on WWII.
“How did World War II go today?” I asked her.
“Postponed until Tuesday.”
“I’ll let the Generals know,” I said.
She drank from the bottle, then wiped it with a tissue and passed it to me.
“Spring water from Vermont,” she said. She took it back and wiped it again before she drank it.
I had one lead. It wasn’t much of a lead. Just a ripped off piece of paper that I found in my Uncle’s dresser. On the paper my Uncle wrote this address: 357 Holster Street, Buckston. It was a long shot, and I could wait around here and hope he comes back, or I could drive out to Buckston right now and check it out.
“You cummin’ with me?” I asked Charlee.
“You gonna drive all the way to Buckston? Without a license?” she said.
“I don’t see nobody handin’ ‘em out, and I can’t wait until next year.”
“I’ll go with you, but there’s just one problem.”
“Big one or a small one?”
“Big enough. Look around you, Walt. You don’t have any cars left.”
112
&
nbsp; “What do you mean we got no cars left?” I said.
I turned the key and the Camaro started up with a pop and a growl. Charlee sat next to me with her mouth open. I stepped on the gas and revved it and Charlee smiled along with me. I can fix up any car that’s worth fixing. Just give me the tools and throw in the owner’s manual.
I knew the Camaro would start when I replaced the plugs and cleaned out the distributor cap last week. I was just waiting for the right moment to turn the key.
“Tie your seat belt in a knot!” I said.
“I can’t believe it, Walt,” she said. “You finally got it goin’.”
“It took a long time but I got fast results.”
“It ain’t as fast as Cooter’s Cougar.”
“What car is?”
When you drive a great car you feel great, especially when you work hard and tune it yourself. It makes you proud, and I felt great and proud riding with Charlee in the Camaro.
Tight steering, quick brakes. Real quality control door-to-door and bumper-to-bumper.
Who knows? I get in the mood, maybe I’ll drive out to Big Burger on Mustang Monday and show them what a real car looks like.
Charlee had a debit card that we used for gas. I put air in the tires, mostly the left front. The right front only needed a few pounds. She put her foot on the gas to prevent stalling when I filled it up.
“You got to take care of yourself,” Charlee said on the road to Buckston.
My shirt got dirty driving around today. The bandage fell off my arm and I didn’t know it. In Charlee’s eyes I’d been through the Battle Of The Bulge.
“You ever go back home and see your father?” she asked.
“Why the hell you bring him up?”
“Just wonderin’. After all, he is your father.”
“I don’t consider him my father, so don’t call him my father. Right now I’m lookin’ for my Uncle.”
It’s a long way to Buckston. I’d never been there and I didn’t have a map. But I know which roads to take and which roads to avoid in general. Uncle Brucker says that’s not savvy, it’s a gift.
Uncle Brucker the Rat Killer Page 21
