by Deforest Day
Chapter 32
She peeled off her T-shirt like it was nothing. And that’s what was underneath. Nothing. Except the nicest ones he’d ever seen; not that he’d seen all that many in real life. They moved when she did; bending over, getting the jeans off. Dark nips; big, standing up, calling Howie to come bite them. Margarita climbed on the bed and posed.
“Don’ be shy, Hooey. Take you’ clos’ off. Yeah, tha’s good. Oooh, Hooey! You big an’ red; jus’ like you’ truck. I can’ hardly get my little han’ aroun’ you! Aww, Hooey, whachoo do, baby? I’m gonna go wash my han’, then come back, make you pleasure me, you bad boy.”
Beer, Howie had learned at an early age, made you pee. Tequila, he discovered more recently, made you fall asleep. Margarita watched him from the bathroom doorway for several minutes, then very quietly gathered her clothing.
Chapter 33
They fed the fire, and talked into the night. She watched his eyes while he dressed the Corsica with a small Arkansas stone. “This was my Daddy’s knife. He carried it through two tours in Vietnam, and my Papaw handed it on when I joined up. I never knowed him, but when I hold it I surely do feel a connection.”
“I know what you mean. My rosary came from my grandmother. I only have the stories, second hand, from Mom, so I just know her that way.” She pushed a log closer to the flames, watched the sparks rise like fireflies; swirling, bursting, dying in the night.
“I have so many first-hand memories of Mom and of Davy, starting when I was little. And now they're both gone.”
“Naw. They ain’t gone, just moved along. Their spirits are still with you, always will be.” He leaned forward, and the flames danced on his face, in his eyes. “I felt Davy the other night, walking into the hotel.”
Justice brought his knapsack closer to the fire. He found a square of white deerskin, unwrapped it, and revealed a small stone bowl. “This here is my Meemaw’s pipe.” He took a hollow reed he had prepared earlier, and inserted it into the stone. “Tobacco and cedar, sage and sweetgrass are the traditional herbs used in the sweat ceremony. We’ll put ‘em on the hot stones, make some smoke.”
Pen stared into the fire, recalling a comparative religion class. “The stones, the herbs, the compass points; all of these Native American rituals are the sacraments of witchcraft.”
“Naw, not no way! Witches are evil.”
“You’re thinking Wicked Witch of the West. Halloween. That’s just propaganda, started in the middle ages by my very own church, to marginalize the old beliefs. Because it was all about power. Witchcraft lost, because there’s no advantage gained by teaching people the cycles of nature, the lunar phases, the seasons, are all manifestations of the divine.”
“You lost me, college girl. Dumb it down.”
“A manifestation is a sign. An event that points to a fact.”
“Like thunder is a mani-whatsit of a storm?”
“You got it. Witchcraft goes back at least thirty-thousand years. That’s why it’s sometimes called the Old Way. You know what Wicca is?”
“It’s the furniture rich folks got on their porches.”
“You’re pulling my leg, right? It’s the modern day name of witchcraft. One of its tenets—sorry; rules, beliefs—is people must accept responsibility for their actions, their choices.
“Plus, going back to your remark about evil witches, there is the Rule of Three. Whatever you do, comes back threefold. So, ‘do no harm’ is the Wicca philosophy. Not unlike the Golden Rule of Christianity.”
“Or the Hippocratic Oath that doctors take.”
“See, you’re not as dumb as you make out.”
“Yeah, I am. Davy knew way more than I ever did. And now I got his sister. Davy on steroids.”
“No, Bob; you’re less educated. There’s a difference.”
Chapter 34
Howie opened an eye, the one that wasn’t buried in the pillow. The room was dark and his butt was cold, and he rolled over. He didn’t usually sleep bare, less’n it was summer. And that wasn’t his ceiling he was looking up at. He licked his lips and tasted salt. It started to come back; the Mexican store, the girl, the drinks made out of that damn makes-my-clothes-fall-off tequila. Frikko.
He dressed and made his way down stairs, slapped the room key on the bar. Gave Chick a vacant stare.
“Where you been, dude? I saw your truck outside, but Pudge wouldn’t tell me where you was at. You get the weed?”
He ignored Chick, focused bleary eyes across the bar. “Beer, Pudge,” he croaked. “Lots. Where’d she go?”
“Who? Chili pepper? She cruised out of here hours ago. Wore you out, huh?” Pudge laughed, drew a mug of Coors, winked at Chick, said, “Get Romeo here to tell you ‘bout his nooner!”
Howie shoved his hand in his jeans, first the right pocket, the one with the roll of hundreds. Empty. The left held twenty-seven bucks and change. He looked down at the floor. Awwww, man. Frik-ko.
Chapter 35
The moon was a slim crescent, rising, taking its place among the points of light scattered across the dome of the night sky. Justice and Davy's sister sat cross-legged on opposite sides of the fire. Pen leaned back on her elbows, looked up. “I never saw stars like this, in Philadelphia. Too many city lights.” She pointed north. “That’s the Big Dipper.”
“The one ever’body knows. Ursa Major. Native Americans say the bowl is a giant bear, and the three stars on the handle are warriors, chasing it.”
He leaned forward, added fuel to the fire. “In Fall the constellation is low in the sky, so they believe the bear was injured by the hunters, and its blood makes the leaves red.” He reached for a stick, sketched the shape in the sandy clearing. “The two stars here, you draw a line five times as long as the distance from this’n to that’n, you got Polaris. The North Star.”
“And?”
“And you can use it, to find your way.”
“I’m better at finding my way with a street map. Or my cellphone, when I get lost.”
“Yes’m, that works. Only, sometimes you got to stand on your own. When you don’t have a map, ain’t got no one to call.”
They talked through the night, sharing Davy stories. Sad ones, funny ones, each getting a view from the other side. As the hours passed Davy's presence grew, and when Justice finally rose and scattered the coals he was there.
Dawn appeared as a deep purple band on the eastern horizon. Justice used the entrenching tool to scoop the heavy, hot rocks from the fire, then carry them into the lodge, where he arranged them in the pit.
The first he placed in the center. The second faces the doorway, faces East, the Spring, and touches the center stone. The third is Summer, the South, and the fourth is West, the Fall. The fifth stone, the North stone, represents Winter. Seven more follow, making twelve, symbolizing the twelve months.
As he brought the rocks inside Pen followed his instructions, placed cedar boughs, sage, and sweetgrass on them, and the lodge began to fill with smoke and strong aromas.
Justice removed his clothing, waded into the shallow stream, and splashed his face. Part of Meemaw’s ritual. He smiled, remembering Davy’s sister touching the holy water at her church.
He entered the sweat lodge and took his position in the West, facing the door. The place of the elder. A few minutes later Pen ducked her head, came through the small opening, and he pointed to his right, the North, facing South.
He prepared the pipe, filling it with four pinches of tobacco, held them out to the four compass points, calling forth the spirits. He sucked in the strong tobacco, and passed it to Pen.
The blue tarps made the interior resemble the heart of a glacier. Icy light, against the intense heat of the fire pit. The tobacco made her dizzy, the steam turned her pale skin red, and salty sweat ran into her eyes. Time slowed.
Justice sealed the entrance, and began one of the few Cherokee prayers he knew. Pen joined in, repeating the sounds after him.
She then recited a mantra she had memorize
d with a high school friend, during a daring dip into Zen.
Om Mani Padma Hum. Six syllables that can transform your impure body, speech, and mind into the purity of the Buddha. Or so the Dali Lama says.
Over the next hour they took turns, back and forth, making it up as they went along. Fusing; the whole purpose being coming to terms with the death of their brother.
When they emerged from the sweat lodge, roasted to the core, the sun was cresting the tree tops, and birds were greeting the new day.
They ran into the brook and splashed, rolled in the icy water, then stood, the steam rising from their bodies, cloaking them in a white mist.
That was when Luther Suggs and his boy Allard roared up the creek bed on their ATV.
Chapter 36
Yesterday was a bad memory. Fifty-six hundred dollars; same thing Alice did for twenty bucks. He popped the glove box door. The Jamaican was gone as well.
Howie cruised past the bodega, maybe spot little Mar-gar-eee-ta. Too embarrassed to go inside, ask for her. What the hell; he could get plenty more smoke from Hor Hay. And there was plenty more money in the RoachMobile. If Mr. Baer ever got around to fishing the rest of it out.
Easy come, easy go. Yesterday, I believe all my troubles gone away. Some philosopher had said that. Rod Stewart? He headed for the car wash.
He had the sound cranked up, Metallica blasting. He kept the beat on the wheel of his big, beautiful red truck. He had just washed it, second time this week, and was driving along First Street, air drying his rig in the morning sun. He liked that sound. My rig. Wondered if he should get an air horn. The kind that goes boop! boop! Make people jump.
He heard a whoop! Whoop!, and looked in his mirror. Frikko. Cop car. He checked his speed. A couple over thirty five, not no reason to get pulled over. He wasn’t holding, so he turned into Paradise Park with a light heart. Had the license and temporary registration in his hand when the cop walked up to his window. Aw, man. It was the chief. “Hey, Chief Schmidt! What’d I do?”
The chief glanced at the papers, handed them back. “Nice truck.” He looked past Howie, flicked his eyes around the interior. Leather trimmed seats, top of the line sound system, wood grained dash. “I hope there are no illegal substances in there. Be a shame to have a nice ride like this forfeited for possession.”
Howie swallowed, offered up a silent prayer to Margarita, patron saint of dope thieves. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Shut it down, son. Take a walk with me.” He led Howie to one of the picnic benches. The Chief sat on the top, put his gleaming black duty shoes on the seat. He placed himself in the center, so there was too little space on either side for the Jarmaluk boy to comfortably sit. It put him just above eye level with the boy, who stood in front of him, mouth breathing.
Always keep them a bit off balance. He took his time getting a cigarette out, lighting it, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. Letting the kid sweat a little. “They must pay pretty good, killing bugs, over there.”
Frikko. So that was what this was about. He had his story ready, like Mr. Baer said. “Yessir. They fling it around like there’s no tomorrow. Paid us more in a week that we’d get in six, back here. And they didn’t seem to much care if the work actually got done. Crazy fuckin’ place. Sorry.”
“Tell me what happened to Larry Tomczak. The undertaker said when you brought his body home, he was badly burned.”
“Yessir. Them A-rabs dropped a bomb on us, started a fire. And kilt Mr. Tomczak.”
“And yet the truck was untouched. How did that happen?”
“Well, I don’t know. There was smoke, and yellin’, and me and Chick and Bumpsy was scurryin’, and I guess we got it out of the garage.”
The Chief smoked and watched the river. Turned his gaze to Howie.
“What?”
“Tell me about this Mr. Baer. Where did he come from?”
“He’s, he was, he was some kind of Army guy, over there. Set us up with the work. I don’t know nothin’ about that. That was between him and Mr. Tomczak. Me and the others, we just sprayed for roaches.”
“Army, eh?”
“Well, I guess. I mean, he wore those soldier clothes. But then, most everybody did. The helmets, what they called K-pots, them vests. There was so many different kinds of people, you couldn’t sort ‘em out.”
“He wasn’t a civilian?”
“Hey, all I know is he acted like the man in charge. Of the fixing stuff. There was a bunch of us; plumbers, ‘lectricians, concrete trucks, back hoes every which way. I don’t know what all.”
“The man in charge. OK, Howard. Thank you for your time.”
“You mean I can go?”
“Yes, son. You can go.”
Howie climbed in his truck. He could feel sweat running down his back. He keyed the ignition. Frikko. What was that all about? How did the Chief know the RoachMobile wasn’t damaged? It had been in the garage ever since they got back. He turned in a wide arc in the parking lot and went looking for Chick.
Chief Schmidt smoked his cigarette and watched the truck move past.
Chapter 37
Yesterday afternoon they'd watched the truck roll past their trailer. “Who’s that, Daddy?” Allard asked.
Luther Suggs saw the Tennessee plates, the older man and the younger woman. “Folks that’s lost,” he said, and went back to work on the damn carb. Float was stuck again, was why the engine kept flooding out. Stinkin’ junk heap; maybe it was time to upgrade to a newer ride. Like that truck from Tennessee.
The road ended, fifteen miles into State Game Lands, and if the fools had a map, they’d know it. Give an hour, they’d pass by again. Or not. Maybe they’d wander off into the woods, seekin’ to connect with nature. Meet some wild life. Like ol’ Luther Suggs. Young couple did that, few summers back. Still out there, someplace.
But they didn’t pass by, an hour later, and the next morning, early, while the boy was getting set to cook another batch of zip, Luther went outside the trailer, and saw the smoke, off to the northeast. “Campers,” he muttered, and tucked the day’s first chaw in his cheek, smiled as the nicotine kicked in.
In addition to cooking meth, they ran trap lines, jacked deer with the ATV, and used the truck, when it ran, to buy or steal the sudafed, lye, drain cleaner, and antifreeze that, in a few short hours, turned a hundred dollars into a thousand.
The boy wasn’t right; he blamed the woman; her cigarettes, her booze, her drugs. The TV made that plain. But he’d tuned her up once too often, and she had left with her black eye and her split lip and her car, plus what loose cash and drugs she could shovel into a shopping bag. The ten year old kid, playing with a box of matches in the dirt, she somehow forget to pack.
Now the boy was twenty, with a lazy left eye and a nose that never quit running. But he knew how to turn pseudoephedrine into crank, and Luther knew where to turn the crank into cash.
Luther killed the engine, and he and the boy climbed off the ATV. “Well, looky here. A couple of nature lovers. Been skinny dippin’, have we?”
Justice slowly backed away, toward the sweat lodge, toward his backpack. Pen stayed in the middle of the stream, her eyes jumping from him, to each of the men, back to Justice.
Good girl, he thought. Since you ran cross country in high school, when I holler ‘run!’, you better scat, quicker than a flushed cottontail. Let’s hope it don’t come to that.
The topo map had shown the ground rising sharply a hundred yards northwest, and the trees meant that these two couldn’t use the ATV.
The boy was big, could be a problem in close, but he had that soft look to him. Justice saw the wandering eye and the milky candles on his upper lip and realized the boy was simple.
The man was the one to worry about. Faded prison tattoos on sun-dark arms laced with ropey muscles. A Saturday night fighter, with biting and eye gouging in his arsenal. Even barefoot they could put some distance between the pair.
Then what? Circle back, take them down, o
ne at a time? He wasn’t about to expose Davy’s sister to that. No reason to ever introduce her to anything along those lines.
He had learned early on the best defense is establish control of the situation. Act, don’t react. Set the rules of the game. “This is our space, for now, sir. I’ll have to ask you to honor it, and move along.” He saw the boy look to the man, needing direction.
Luther laughed, displaying rotten teeth. He moved close enough for Justice to smell his putrid body odor and revolting breath.
He knew then what they were dealing with. He had seen it, too often, in the ER, at Virginia Commonwealth. And had experienced other symptoms of the drug; a false sense of confidence and power, and its corollary: aggressive and violent behavior.
“You hear that, Allard? Wants us to move along. Why, we ain’t hardly got here. Ain’t had a chance to chit-chat. Ain’t had a chance to visit with that fine-looking girl.”
“Can I do it to her, Daddy?”
“In time, son. That will come to pass. But first we gone have us some fun with this fella, ‘fore he gives us the keys to his truck.” He moved between the naked man and his knapsack, and kicked it into the water.
Justice had spotted the rifle in a scabbard on the ATV before these two had even dismounted. Both men were still closer to the gun; not a problem, but the gun might not be loaded. And he still hoped to keep this encounter from escalating into needless violence. Still hoped to use the weapon of persuasion. Talk this fool down from Methamphetamine Mountain.
Then Luther made that plan irrelevant. “Look at his wiener, Allard. All shriveled up; can’t hardly tell iffn it’s a man or a woman. You a he-she, fella? Or just a queer? Either way, you won’t be needin’ them stones.” He closed to three feet, lifted his knee, and kept his eyes on Justice. He pulled a skinning knife from his boot.
