by Gregory Hill
First, I dialed Clarissa. It rang a thousand times but she didn’t answer. I hung up. Every second I remained in the house, more particles of stink were floating off my body and sticking to the walls.
It was no good calling Vaughn. His mom would answer and then she’d yell at me and then yell at him. I had to call someone. We couldn’t sleep in our beds until we knew we were clean.
As I contemplated who to call next, Pa tried the front door. It may have been the first time that door had ever been locked. It was certainly the first time Pa had been locked out of his own house. He pounded on the door. He shouted, “What the hell’s going on in there?”
I ignored him.
I tried D.J. Beckman. Jackass that he was, I figured he’d be up for an adventure. He answered halfway thru the first ring. “Yepper.”
I explained the situation. He laughed at me. I hung up on him.
Dad kept knocking on the door.
The phone rang. I answered. It was D.J. “Shakespeare, why you gotta be so dramatic? I’m on my way.” He hung up. I put the phone back in its cradle and hustled out the door.
When he saw me, Pa stepped back. He was still holding the .22. “What in the world are you doing out here in your undershorts?”
I said, “What are you doing with that gun?”
He looked at the rifle in his hands. “I suppose I’m going to shoot someone.”
I slipped past him, found my clothes, and got dressed.
In order to keep Pa distracted while we waited on D.J., I walked with him up to the road. I pointed out the North Star. He pointed out the blinking light of a jet zooming overhead.
Having accomplished our stargazing, we turned and headed back down the driveway toward the house. As we approached, I saw a little peak of a thumbnail moon rising just above the top of the shed. I paused and said, “Look, Pa, the moon’s rising.”
We stood together and watched as that grey sliver climbed over the silhouette of the building. Once it cleared the top, Pa said, “That was neat.” Then he sighted the gun at the moon and pulled the trigger. Pop! The bullet zoomed over the shed and into the night.
I said, “Think you got it?”
He said, “Shoot the moon.”
We took a couple more steps toward the house. With the gentle descent down the driveway, the angle between us, the shed, and the moon changed so that the moon was once again hidden behind the shed.
Once again, I said, “Look, Pa, the moon’s rising.” Once again, we watched the grey sliver climb over the top of the shed. Once again, Pa said, “That was neat,” and then shot at it.
We watched the moon rise five times.
* * *
Target practice was interrupted by the distant sound of D.J.’s car. When we looked north, we saw the headlights from a mile away. He drove fast. Soon, he was skidding to a stop in the driveway, twenty feet from where we stood. The famous two-hundred-dollar 1972 Chevy Nova. Beat up and ugly. But still cool.
He shut off the engine, leaving the headlights on, and leaned out the window. “I hear you boys are having skunk trouble.”
“Is that so?” said Pa.
“According to Shakes.” D.J. pointed toward the rifle Pa was holding. “Is that a .22? That’s a nice-looking gun.”
Pa said, “I’d shoot you but I’d have to kill you.”
D.J. made har-har noises. “You’re a funny man, Emmett.”
Pa said, “You wanna have a look at it? It’s a pretty neat old gun.”
Pa started walking toward the car. D.J. raised the palm of his hand. “Hang on, there. I got a job to do.”
I said, “Yeah. Smell us, willya?”
“Smell for what?” said Pa.
“Shakes thinks you’ve been sprayed by a skunk,” said D.J. He pointed at me. “Walk toward me, real slow, Skunkspeare.”
Here’s the thing with anosmia. You gotta humiliate yourself in order to make sure you don’t stink. And the only reason you care if you stink is so you don’t offend the smellers. Go to all this trouble and they still make fun of you. At least when people make fun of the blind, the poor bastards can’t see it.
I took a step. D.J. sniffed and said, “Keep coming.”
I walked closer and closer as he waved me in. When I was standing right next to his car, he gave me a thumbs-up. “You smell like a farm rat. But there ain’t no skunk on you.”
“Now do Dad.”
Before Pa was within five steps, D.J. held up his hand. “You been sprayed, Emmett.”
“Sprayed by what?”
“A damned skunk,” said D.J.
“I don’t smell nothing.”
“Is it bad?” I asked.
D.J. gave me a pitiful look. “It’s a skunk.”
I leaned in the Nova’s window and whispered, “You wouldn’t be messing with me? Taking advantage of the situation?”
He shook his head. “I don’t joke about skunk stink. And if I did, I wouldn’t put it on Emmett.”
I looked him in the eye. All I could see was that his pupils were dilated.
I said, “So it’s tomato juice, then.”
“Don’t bother with that shit,” said D.J. “Use baking soda and peroxide. My dog got sprayed once. It works good. Cheaper, too.” He opened the glove box and pulled out a bag of brownies. “Speaking of cheap.”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s nothing but the green, green grass of home. It’s real fresh. Might help you trust people.”
“No.”
He turned the headlights off. “After all I’ve done for you.”
“You haven’t done that much.”
“I drove here in the middle of the night just so I could smell you two bobbleheads. I’d call that doing very much. In fact, I’d call it a charitable act.”
Dad said, “Give to charity.”
D.J. reached in the back seat and retrieved a six-pack. “Have a beer. Visit. Relax.”
I said, “I don’t have time for a beer. Dad needs a bath.”
D.J. said, “Come on. He can sit outside for a minute. He’s not gonna get any stinkier.” To Pa, he said, “You want a frosty beverage, Mr. Williams?”
Pa said, “I love frosties.”
D.J. pulled a can off the plastic ring and handed it to me. “Give that to your father, please.”
Pa said, “I can get it myself.” He started walking toward the car.
D.J. said, “Hold it! Not a step closer.”
Pa said, “Why the hell not?”
D.J. winked at me. “Because my car just got sprayed by a skunk. If you come too close, you’ll get the stink on you.”
Pa took a few steps backward. “Hell. I wouldn’t get within a hundred miles.”
I tossed the beer to Pa. He caught it in his left hand—the hand that wasn’t holding the rifle—and threw it right back to me.
I said, “If you don’t want it, you don’t get it.” I pointed the can away from me and popped the top. It fizzed a little over my hands, but not too bad. I took a sip.
“That’s better,” said D.J. He opened a beer of his own and took a theatrical drink.
I said, “All right. We’re visiting.”
A quick breeze stirred thru the yard. D.J. said, “It’s nice, isn’t it? Being out on a beautiful night. Look at the stars.”
I didn’t bother looking up. I’d seen them.
D.J. said, “You ever wonder why I’d be up at all hours, answering the phone?”
“Is Channel Twenty showing a Dukes of Hazzard marathon?”
My cleverness had no effect on D.J. He said, “It’s because life is difficult, Shakespeare. My life. The lives of others. I know you sit at home with your old man and mope all the time, but other people’s lives are equally complicated. My own included
.”
Dad said, “Hope is a thing with fathers.”
D.J. raised his beer in a toast. “Emmett, you are a genius. Always have been. Always will be. You’ve inspired me to explore vast landscapes of invention that I otherwise would never have dared to traverse.”
Pa nodded his head in humility. “Thank you, sir.”
I said, “How’s that? How’s he inspired you?”
“By being himself. But mostly thru 4-H. Remember that, Emmett? You taught me how to troubleshoot a lawn mower engine. We spent all those afternoons in your shed.” D.J. grew wistful. “You showed us carburetors and taught us about timing. And you were always in the middle of your mad-scientist projects. Remember that hot-air balloon you made out of a pair of polyester britches? Always something. Ever since those days, I’ve wanted to be an inventor. And now I’ve found my place. I create new and unheard-of recipes with various pharmaceutical and herbal ingredients. One day, one of these recipes will catch on and the world will remember me. Thanks to you.”
Dad was proud.
I wanted to bring the conversation back home. “Your life is complicated, D.J. How so?”
“So many people in the world need our help, Shakespeare. Poverty. Pain. I’m not a rich man. I do what I can. Sometimes, it keeps me up nights.”
I didn’t know where he was headed but I was sure wherever it was involved lots of meandering. Maybe a confession. Whatever it was, I didn’t particularly care. I raised my beer and said, “To altruism.”
D.J. took a drink, wiped his lip, and looked at the can in his hand. “A malt-truism for altruism.”
Nobody spoke for a while. We listened to the sounds of the night.
Then D.J. said, “So you wanna buy a brownie or not?”
Sensing that this would be the only way to bring an end to our visit, I said, “How much?”
“Fifteen dollars.”
“No, thanks.”
“Ten?”
Pa got curious. “What’s that you’re buying?”
D.J. said, “Brownies.”
Pa said, “I like brownies. Buy a brownie.”
I said, “I’m almost broke, Mr. Altruist.”
D.J. sighed. “Five.”
We exchanged goods for cash. D.J. drove away, his taillights barely visible for all the dust his car kicked up.
* * *
Pa didn’t want to take a bath.
“I’m not a baby.”
“You been sprayed by a skunk. You gotta take a bath.”
“If I’d of been sprayed by a skunk, I would smell it.”
“You don’t have a sense of smell.”
“How would you know?”
“Get in.” It was after four A.M. Way too late for us to be up. We were standing in the bathroom. I had failed to get Pa to take off his clothes before he pushed his way into the house. I could almost see the stink particles floating in the air.
The tub was filled with steaming water. I had poured in a bottle of peroxide and half a box of the baking soda that had been sitting in the fridge since 1991. Just to be on the safe side, I also dumped in a can of tomato soup. It looked like a witches’ brew.
“I’m not getting in that.”
“You’re gonna stink up the whole house.”
“I’m not going to stink up a damn thing ’cause I don’t damn stink.”
I said, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” I went to the kitchen and retrieved D.J.’s brownie from the fridge. When I got back to the bathroom, Pa was standing like a mannequin right where I left him.
“Eat this.” I broke the brownie in two and handed him half.
He put it in his mouth and chewed brattily. Stuck out his tongue.
“Good, huh?”
“So-so.”
I fed him the other half. He gobbled it up.
I said, “Let’s watch some TV.”
He followed me out of the bathroom. I laid a ratty blanket over his chair and sat him down on it. We watched an infomercial for twenty minutes before he started giggling. He didn’t even know I was there. He laughed and laughed. Holding his tummy. “Wheeeee!” I snuck out of the room and ran some more warm water into the tub.
When I came back, he was staring at the TV, face stuck in a blissful smile.
“Pa?”
“Yes, son?”
“I got an idea.”
“Yes?” Giggle.
“I was thinking you might enjoy a bath right now.”
“That so?”
“Wanna try?”
“Sure.”
I helped him stand up. His hands floated around his head like they were hanging on strings. I removed the blanket from the chair and led him to the bathroom.
“That bathtub looks real good, don’t it?”
“Sure does.”
I put the blanket on the floor. “Take off your clothes and set ’em right there.”
He pointed to the blanket. “On that deal?”
“On that deal.”
I exited, shutting the door behind me. After a few moments, I said, “You got your clothes off?”
“Sure do!”
“Okay, now get in the tub.”
Splashing sounds.
“You in there?”
“Yep.”
I went back into the bathroom. He was sitting upright in the tub. I handed him a washcloth. “Scrub yourself real good. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
I looked at him sternly. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“Scrub myself.” He laughed. “Real good. Fried potatoes.”
I bundled his clothes in the blanket and started them in the washing machine along with a handful of baking powder.
Then I sat outside the bathroom and listened to make sure he was making bathing sounds. There was splashing and scrubbing. He said, “Oh, wow,” several times.
I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, the sun was shining and Dad was gone.
CHAPTER 16
PA TAKES A RIDE
It was almost noon. The bathtub was empty. The TV was still on. The pickup wasn’t in the garage.
Emmett Williams won the state 4-H tractor-driving competition in 1960. He used to be able to reverse a pickup into a crowded shed with two anhydrous tanks linked on back. You could set him blindfolded on the surface of Mars and he’d know which way was north. Now he couldn’t tell left from right.
I wasn’t scared of him killing anyone. Everybody knew what his truck looked like; if someone saw Pa driving in their direction, they would pull over and let him pass. I wasn’t scared of him killing himself in an accident. He drove thirty miles an hour.
I was scared of him not coming back. He could drive and drive and get more and more lost. Eventually, he’d end up in Nebraska on a cattle trail, out of sight from the road. The pickup would run out of gas, he’d get out. Take a piss. Start walking. Get bit on the ankle by a rattlesnake. Scratch the bite every once in a while. Leg swells up to the point that he has to lie down next to a patch of soapweed. Wheeze. Confused. Sun burns his face. The snakebite turns his skin black. He doesn’t know anything. He talks to Mom. Then he dies. At dark, the coyotes come.
It’s best to approach these things pragmatically. Either he’d come home on his own, or someone would find him and lead him home, or he was dead in a Nebraska pasture. In any case, there was nothing I could do about it.
While I waited, I hoed the garden. The tomatoes were growing real good; they already had yellow flowers. Everything else was barely growing at all. Apparently, I hadn’t been watering enough. The onions, carrots, and corn were all floppy, but they were alive, at least. The cabbages had leaned their little leaves over and dried up. I hoed the remains into the ground.
Who likes cabbage, anyway? I turned on the soaker hose.
I ate lunch at three o’clock and went back outside. In the shed, I found a five-gallon bucket of red paint. I decided to paint the granary. I had to do something.
* * *
I popped the top off the paint bucket. The paint had separated. Thicker than mucus. I couldn’t stir it with a stick so I bent a metal rod and stuck it in the end of the electric drill. A few minutes and it was mixed good.
Fill the brush, wipe the wood. The granary was old and dry. People pay good money for old wood. They chop it into foot-long chunks, paint the pieces with flower scenes, and sell them at flea markets.
No flea markets for this granary. I took lots of breaks. It was a hot one. Flies bit my neck. I drank water out of the hydrant. I couldn’t find the ladder. I’m almost six feet tall. Standing on my tiptoes with arms stretched high, I was able to paint an eight-foot-tall band all around the bottom of the granary. I got a lot of paint on my shoes and my britches. My arms were wet with it. I could feel it in my hair. When the bucket was empty, I left it where it set. The paintbrush was solid with red.
I walked to the pasture east of the house and threw the brush as hard as I could. It spun thru the air, leaving a red spiral. We didn’t have any damned paint—what did we need with a brush?
I went back to the garden and shut off the soaker hose. The plants looked happier, at least.
* * *
He came back at dusk. I was sitting on the front step, using a twig to scrape paint off my fingernails. He coasted the pickup into the driveway. The whole truck was covered in mud. Where do you find mud in this world? Driving up a sprinkler road, maybe. He got out of the truck. He was muddy. His shoes, his britches. He might as well have been a dog that had run away and come back home for all the answers he could give me. I didn’t even ask.
We stood next to one another, me covered with red paint, him crusted with mud, and watched the sun sink. The edges of the clouds glowed orange. An owl hooted in the patch of trees north of the house.
I said, “That’s a good sunset.”
