Dead Nolte

by Borne Wilder

  The witch pulled her toothpick from her matted hair and inspected the ball of opium.” When you git there, you lick da mark in you hand. Da cipher on you hand, make you stupid. It make you head hard ta read. Help you forgit ‘bout Mama” She looked up at Nolte and cocked her head as if she was evaluating him. “Jes lick it one time, you already look stupid enough for two people.” She motioned for him to step back. “You git dis thing and come back to Mama. Mama fix you forever and ever.” She picked up her candle. “Now, go away, White Boy, you harshin’ my buzz.”

  ***

  Nolte’s demeanor had changed the moment the dirt slipped from his hand and onto his mother’s metallic sapphire coffin, a color Mommy had adored. Before that moment, and all during the funeral, he had been all smiles and sunbeams. At one point, when the smiling was bordering on maniacal grinning, Ron had nudged Charlie. “What’s with the shit eating grin? He looks like he’s just won the lottery.”

  “Maybe he has,” Charlie smiled himself. “Mommy Dearest had fat stacks tucked under her mattress, but I think he’s just tickled pink, to be out from under her thumb.”

  Mommy Dearest had been demanding, and then some. She considered herself to be a genteel, southern belle, and presented herself as such, as needy of affections and attentions, as one might expect from southern royalty. It had been said, when she was in full bloom, her devious pretentions could change the weather to suit her mood, if she had a mind to. It had also been said, that she was a whiney, manipulative bitch, no man could satiate, nor stomach for more than a few months at a time.

  Nolte had always appeared to be oblivious to her manipulations, but in truth, it had made him feel safe, that she had controlled every aspect of the cretin’s existence from his cradle to her grave. Whatever hold she had over him, was dark and secret and never to be spoken of and those around them knew better than to ask.

  His blind obedience might have been born from fear of the violent ‘scolding’s’ young Nolte had received as a child. Her ‘scoldings’ were, in fact, beatings. Severe beatings, with a fine tortoiseshell hairbrush. Any and all infractions to her stringent, old world ideas and rules of child rearing resulted in the same punishment and because she had allowed herself to make the rules up as she went, the beatings were many.

  Nolte’s father, whom the young lad was never allowed to come in contact with, once remarked that, though she was quick to throw a beating on the kid, he never saw her once reward him in any way, shape or form. It was exactly this kind of lackadaisical attitude and progressive thinking that had produced daddy number one’s walking papers.

  Children were to be seen and not heard. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Children were to earn their keep. Money doesn’t grow on trees. (Though, not a rule, per se, it had might as well have been, as often as it had been mentioned) Permission is only granted to those who ask, “Mother may I?” Good boys always show their mothers, not mommies, respect by referring to them as such. Even though she thoroughly hated it, she had allowed young Nolte to call her Mommy, instead of Mother and it remained Mommy until the day she passed.

  The complete, unedited list of Mommy’s rules and stipulations would require months to compile, (as there were new ones popping up daily) and quite possibly, might take years to set to memory, but young Nolte was expected to know them by rote. The slightest bending of one of Mommy's commandments would manifest in the form of a hairbrush reformation.

  Once she had beaten young Nolte so severely, the hairbrush had snapped in two across his ass. The fine tortoiseshell head was sent clattering across the floor, leaving the fine tortoiseshell handle impotent and inert in Mommy’s clenched fist. Feeling the punishment incomplete, Mommy tested the weight of the remaining portion of the handle, but found it insufficient as far as leverage, even if she gripped it at the very end. The thought of subjecting her bare hand to the ministrations was unacceptable, and so the fine tortoise shell handle clattered across the floor, coming to rest near the fine tortoise shell head and young Nolte was sent to a corner to serve the remainder of his sentence.

  The one time in his life that he had recounted the incident, as a means to justify the beating he had just meted out on Charlie’s ass, was quickly amended by the fact that his dearest mother had thrown the instrument of punishment into the trash and never laid so much as a finger on him again. The amendment had been preceded by a quick glance over his shoulder to see if Mommy had overheard his indiscretion. She hadn’t of course, for she was at that very instance, down in Texas bilking husband number six out of everything, but his short and curlies.

  There were other things young Nolte had to fear beyond the hairbrush beatings, things less tangible, yet far more frightening, bums, for instance. Although, young Nolte had never actually seen one in person, according to Mommy, bums accounted for, not only the majority of sexual assaults on nubile young lads, such as himself, but also the disappearances of said lads. It was best to stay close to Mother. “Those dirty men want nothing more than to get your britches down and touch you with their unwashed fingers.” At first, Nolte was confused as to which he should fear most, the touching, or the unclean hands of bums. He played it safe and avoided both.

  Mommy Dearest may be dead, but her warnings of the boogie man and the punishments that awaited bad boys were alive and well in Nolte’s inner child. When all was said and done, and it had been said by many, ‘she had sure fucked that boy up good.’

  Most of Nolte’s life, it had just been the two of them, Nolte and Mommy, except for the occasional appearance of a new Uncle-Daddy, (some of the fellows Mommy had insisted he call Uncle and some she had demanded he call Daddy) they had been left to fend for themselves with only their wits and big stack of Uncle-Daddy money.

  They were inseparable because of many obvious factors, but the one thing that had held the two together through all the years, kept them close, perhaps too close, mother and son, partners in secrets and lies, was the one thing Nolte would never reveal, Yet, he had hinted at it from time to time, when drunken stupors had loosened his tongue, but sadly, at this level of inebriation, his ability to verbalize was limited to grunts and hints at vowels; the secret was never in any real danger of being told.

  Ron and Charlie had their own ideas, pertaining to the unnatural bond; Ron thought it was some sorted incestual thing, initiated by Mommy Dearest’s insatiable desire to remain in her twenties forever; Charlie thought she had just kept Nolte on the teat too long.

  The smiling and inappropriate grinning ceased the moment Nolte dusted the grave dirt from his hands. His face, straightaway, became drawn and grim. He’d turned and walked away from the graveside without a word. Of course, Alice had chased after him in the role of ‘concerned daughter’, but he’d shrugged her off and gone home alone.

  The rest of the day he drank himself stupid, but whatever it was, that had suddenly soured his attitude at the cemetery, remained a secret and appeared to be resistant to alcohol.

  Usually, almost always, whenever Nolte had drank himself up into the wind, no woman or girl in a dress was safe from his pinching and squeezing. His hands moved with the dexterity of a surgeon. His misdirection and sleight of hand rivaled the feint of any street hustler to ever toss the broad, skills he took great pride in and lived to demonstrate, but for the most part, on this day, he appeared oblivious to the target rich environment. Women of all cup sizes went unmolested and roamed freely.

  The hands-off approach, Nolte had chosen for his grieving, puzzled Ron and Charlie. They had grown up with the embarrassment and shame that came with being the sons of Mr. McFeely. Social settings were the worst and had forced both of them to master the apologetic shrug to women who became victims of Nolte’s gropings. They would shrug, shake their head, frown and look at the floor in hopes they, themselves, would not be convicted by Nolte’s perverse behavior.

  Nolte had even called Martha’s husband RJ by name/initials, instead of Goober, when he had offered his obligatory; ‘Sorry for y
our loss.’ This was completely out of character for Nolte. He took pride in degrading the big hillbilly. In truth, Nolte had no idea where RJ was from and didn’t really care, he could have descended from royalty, shat out of the Queen’s own crack, and it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference to Nolte, RJ was a hillbilly by marriage. It was equal to a kiss of death in Nolte’s eyes, Hillbilly was a station one would hold for life. You could marry in, but you could never marry out.

  When Nolte had married Mona, Alice and Martha’s mother, all three had a thick southern drawl. Therefore, in Nolte’s eyes, they were hillbillies, or hickerbillies, as he liked to say. Over the years the sisters had worked hard to suppress their accents, even went so far as buying books and audio tapes, to help them escape the hold Tennessee had on their vocal cords, but once Nolte labeled you, he made sure it stuck.

  Mona never bothered. She considered her stretching of vowels to be sexy and fit nicely with the bourbon slur of a troubled and mysterious southern belle. She, like Mommy, considered herself to be of an elite southern bloodline, though Mona’s had originated somewhere in Alabama and Alabama Belles were widely acknowledged to be far less needy, than wherever it was that Mommy’s line came from, No one, was really sure where that might be, but some say it was Topeka.

  On the day of Mommy’s funeral, Alice’s husband Junior had avoided Nolte at all costs, which was what he usually did if it was at all possible. Junior felt that whoever had made up Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, had gotten it wrong, words do hurt, and Nolte could throw them harder than anyone he had ever run across.

  He spent the day eating fried chicken and sneaking gulps of beer when Alice wasn’t watching. On social occasions, Alice required Junior to keep his wits about him and this meant no alcohol. Although she allowed Junior his evening beers, she swore they made him dumber than a box of rocks and she sure as shit didn’t want people thinking he had less upstairs than he actually did, if it could be helped. Junior thought beer brought out his boyish charm and made him affable.

  Besides titties, Junior was Nolte’s favorite target. He would actually seek him out and verbally assault the timid man relentlessly at every opportunity. On this day, however, Junior’s fears seemed to be unfounded; it appeared he’d been given a pass. Nolte hadn’t said boo, shit, or go to hell in his direction all day. Tickled with his reprieve, Junior secretly wished more people would die, more often. The lack of attention he was receiving from everyone, felt almost like it was his birthday.

  Nolte had spent the day in relative silence and it was only after everyone, except for the immediate family, had gone, that he’d finally found words.

  In the kitchen, RJ and Junior quietly regaled each other with high school football lies, trying to keep their laughter below the radar of the fun police.

  Both of the ‘concerned daughters’ were on either side of Nolte, both vocally admiring his strength in such a trying time, offering nonstop condolences and trying to replace his ever present margarita with some baked beans or a piece of chicken.

  Ron and Charlie sat across from the old goat. Both had had their fill of the ‘family thing’ and both had been busily devising an escape when the old man finally broke his silence.

  “I should have told her about the magic.” He told them, slurring slightly. “The magical money. The pope had one left; I could have gotten it from him, I could have raised her up from the dead.” Nolte’s eyes looked as if he had been crying.

  This struck Ron as strange. He hadn’t seen Nolte cry once during the day, as a matter of fact, he’d never seen the man cry, ever. He didn’t actually think he was capable of it. He suspected Nolte must have rubbed salt or something in them to achieve the effect.

  “Maybe you had better put down the chicken and go back to the margaritas.” Charlie leaned forward, and slid Nolte’s drink closer to him. Charlie winked at Ron twirling his finger next to his ear, indicating Nolte wasn’t right in the head.

  “You don’t know shit, you fucking cupcake.” Nolte grabbed his drink and tossed it back. He looked around the room slowly from face to face, pausing at each one, to either emphasize the fact, that none of them knew shit from shinola, or perhaps, to give each of them a chance to see his “tear worn eyes”. Ron was the first to recognize the performance, as the old fart’s Lee Marvin impression, Charlie was a close second, the hill girls remained clueless. Nolte used the Lee Marvin when he wanted someone to know he was serious about an issue, heart-attack serious. “Fuck you all!” he said, slamming his empty glass down hard. “I could have kept her alive. She deserved to live. Not you fuckers, you fuckers all deserve to fucking die.”

  “Yeah? Well, I can’t say I’m real fond of you either.” Ron said. He’d heard the ‘All you fuckers deserve to die,’ sermon before, however, the raise grandma from the dead was a new twist.

  Charlie flopped back in his chair. “You’re babbling drunk old man. You need some sleep.” As far as he knew, Nolte had hated his mother, had resented her meddling and extended breastfeeding, yet here he was talking like Dr. Frankenstein. Charlie thought it might be a good idea to hide the shovels until he sobered up, or at least until some of the crazy wore off. Though he was pretty sure, the idea of human taxidermy had probably crossed Nolte Bates’ mind more than once, over the years.

  Nolte tapped his pants pocket. “I have the magic fucking bean, right here in my pocket, you simple fuckers. The key to immortality.” Nolte smiled for the first time since he’d left the cemetery. “I have the key to the happy hereafter, right here in my pocket. I was going to show her, but I knew she’d get mad. She had rules against magic.” His slurred words were tinged with a childlike sadness. He rocked to one side, in order to dig in his pocket. He fell against Alice and remained there, leering down her dress, until she helped him right himself.

  Nolte passed around another Lee Marvin before he dramatically pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and presented it, drunken magician style, in the palm of his hand. “This, assholes, is life eternal.” He fumbled with the drawstring and poured out a single gray coin. He drew an imaginary circle around it with his finger, as it lay in his hand. “Life eternal, losers, feast your eyes on it.” Nolte’s eyes twinkled as he ogled the small coin. A strange look was twisting and tugging at Nolte’s face, a look no one in the room had seen before. If they all hadn’t known better, one might have mistaken it for love.

  “Touch it.” He offered the coin to Martha, who leaned away, waving it off. Perhaps her apprehension was toward the coin, or perhaps it was her experience, that nothing good ever followed the words ‘touch it’, when they came from Nolte. Either way, the look on her face was one of fear, but then, she always had the look of a rape victim when she was in close proximity to Nolte. “Fuck you, goody-fuckin’-two shoes. Nolte handed the coin carefully to Ron, instead. He placed it gently in the center of his palm, as though it were the most valuable item on Earth. “Feel it, Cupcake. There is power in that coin.” His voice had taken on an unusual friendly quality. “There is magic in that coin.”

  Ron turned the coin in his hand. He didn’t know anything about coins, but this one looked to be ancient. It even felt old. He couldn’t help but notice the hillbillies’ eyes were glued to it. He could almost hear them mentally calculating its value, “naught, naught, carry the naught…” Martha still looked like she had a bad taste in her mouth, but Ron could see the dollar signs in her eyes. Nolte’s eyes never left it either. Unlike the hillbillies’ stares of greed, he appeared to be mesmerized by it, transfixed.

  Charlie plucked it rudely from his fingers; his stomach instantly went sour, he suddenly felt as if he were sharing Martha’s expression. Without a second glance, he quickly handed it to Alice, who had, unconsciously, had her hand out; from the second she had realized it was a form of money.

  “Eternal life, huh?” Charlie asked. “If by eternal, you mean the span it takes for Alice to pry it out of your semi cold dead fingers and get it to the pawn shop, then, yeah, it looks eternal to m
e.”

  “Laugh all you want, Nancy-Boy, but one of these days you’ll be laughing out your ass,” Nolte said coldly, as he snatched the coin from Alice’s fingers. “Stop spending it, you stupid bitch. You will never get your grubby dick-beaters on this.” He turned his attention to Martha. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to touch my thingy, honey?” he asked in a drunken, singsong voice. Martha shook her head and moved away to the end of the couch. There was something wrong with the coin; she could feel it in her bones. Something inside her told her to stay away.

  Nolte put the coin carefully back into the leather pouch, making sure to double knot the drawstring. Once again his eyes became distant and grim. “I miss my mommy.”

  5

  In the French Quarter, a light rain washed the sidewalks and put a fresh shine on the lamp posts. Thick air drew musk up from the river and into the magnolias, the smell of fish and slow moving water. Scents that strum a primordial chord deep within us, where instinct, the voices of our ancestors and God’s basic instructions reside.

  It was an easy winter rain, the pitter patter kind, which puts everyone at ease. The ancient bouquet of the river, combined with the pitter patter, was probably welcomed by those that came to the Quarter for ambiance, but not so much by the vendors in the French Market. People at ease don’t spend money urgently.

  Tucked away from the open air shops and laid-back shoppers, in the back of a small antique music store, a small man sorted through a large stack of wrinkled papyrus. The rigid paper was handmade from reeds in the traditional methods used by the ancients but left as sheets instead of assembled into the more traditional scroll.

  Contractual obligations, the nature of which the small man dealt in, had long been recorded on scrolls and still were in certain countries that romanced tradition. The American human, however, seemed to hold the 8.5 x 11-inch sheet in higher regard and considered it to be more legally binding, than some obsolete rolled-up paper.