Tattoo the Wicked Cross

by Salas, Floyd;

  Wet floor boards glistened like varnish in two more stalls within the next hour, for Aaron worked fast and he worked as quickly every morning, and not only from anger. Working, also, kept him from thinking about the failure too much, and working kept him hoping that things might still work out. For his fit of rage and his threat of an equalizer had kept him lonely but unharmed, and he reminded himself of this after he emptied the wheelbarrow, started on the fourth stall, and felt the uneasy sensation of being watched.

  Still, he kept working and lifted his eyes as he lifted the shovel, looking for the Buzzer, who had appeared at least once every morning, watched him without speaking, then disappeared. He took a long look behind him as he propped the shovel against the side of the stall, but he could see no one, let alone the black face of his enemy, and although he felt on edge, several days had hardened him and he was not scared.

  He squatted down, dragged the rake under the metal belly of the food trough, dug the rusted teeth into the turflike muck, and had to pull and strain to break some of it loose. He concentrated upon this, grunting, forgetting his feeling of being watched, forgetting that he was supposed to be on guard, which was something he hadn’t been able to do when he had the blade. He rose, raked the muck to the door, propped the rake against the wall, stepped out into the aisle, reached for the shovel, and froze motionless as he touched it.

  An eye and a shiny black forehead protruded beyond the edge of the last stall!

  His fingers clamped, slowly, around the wooden handle, and he pulled it slowly toward him, without panic, but as an act of sheer will, then swung it to his shoulder like a rifle, and held it there until the eye disappeared and shoes crunched on the straw-littered floor.

  He listened for a few minutes in case they returned, trying to hear over the pounding of his heart, telling himself that he had nothing to fear, that he had the rake and the shovel, and that the Buzzer wasn’t brave enough to risk getting hurt. But the stall walls could screen any crouching figure, brave or cowardly, and he went back to work without confidence.

  He tried to forget his worry by working, by shoveling the muck into the wheelbarrow with greater and greater speed, and he tried to picture how a pleased Mr. Handy would compliment him for his good work and stopped! still bent over the shovel! For Mr. Handy had mentioned that he would be in the pastures all morning! The Buzzer was in sole charge!

  He straightened up, listened, stared, and, because he was aware of how scared he must look, the mud streaks caked on his face and a shirt that was too big and loose for him now irritated him. But he could see no one nor hear anything within the hushed high-roofed building, and he bent down, shoveled the last two bladefuls into the wheelbarrow, and leaned the shovel against the stall side of the wall for safety.

  He stepped into the aisle, looked carefully in both directions, listened again. Nothing. Only a manure- and straw-littered floor. He lifted the hose, undid the tight kink in it, dragged it into the stall, turned the nozzle without paying attention to what he was doing, and jumped when the hose bucked, slithered along his arm and shot a hard spray against the metal trough. He smiled at his fear and turned the spray onto the spots of mud and dung, straw and hay which clung like adobe to the wooden boards. But it made so much noise he worried that someone would creep up on him, unheard, and he softened the stream to a wide spray, climbed up on the round wooden stool, and looked around the barn.

  Specks of dust floated in the sunbeams which pierced the cool, darkened and peaceful atmosphere. An atmosphere in which, in spite of the Buzzer and Stanley’s failure, he was not tortured by the unwieldy power of the blade, he did not worry about losing his soul, he was not burdened by problems he couldn’t solve. It was an atmosphere in which the summer heat had no effect, and the month of September seemed within a reasonable count, and he called himself chicken and stepped down from the stool.

  He rested his squatting haunches on his muddy heels, turned the spray on full blast again, and shot it under the trough. He kept it directed there for some minutes, pleased by the ping of hard water pellets on the chalky blue belly, pleased by the manner with which the pounding spray ricocheted off the trough and the now-clean boards back into his face, pleased because it was cool, because it was refreshing, and, pleased, he smiled at the absent-minded way he had polished the small space beneath the trough; and glad of a chance to smile at himself, he leaned forward to catch more spray drops, and heard a deadened noise, as if someone had knocked something over in one of the darkened corners of the barn.

  He twisted the nozzle and cut off the spray.

  He held his breath and listened.

  No sound.

  He waited.

  Still, he could hear nothing, and he stood and stepped out into the aisle, where he squinted his eyes and tried to define every shadow and every dark shape in every dark corner. He scanned the whole barn. He even looked into the rafters and onto the loft above the closed doors, with the large wired bundles of hay stacked upon it.

  There was nothing.

  He waited silently until he was completely satisfied that he was alone, then he returned to the stall and turned the hose on again, but he could not shake the feeling of being watched.

  He tried to soften a corner section of the stall which was stiff with muck and prepare it for his shovel when he heard something slide on floor straw. But he was afraid he was getting overanxious, and he kept at his job until he heard the noise again. Only it was accompanied by a thump this time, and he was afraid to move. He heard it again as a faint rustle, and he cut the spray off and stood, with his pulse throbbing in his fingers, as motionless and quiet as his trembling would allow.

  No noise.

  He stepped out into the aisle again.

  Nothing.

  He stepped back into the stall again, and turned the hose on, and worked diligently at softening the muck, while he kept the stream to a medium spray, still apprehensive, still listening.

  But as he began to clear the muck and get interested in the work again, an oppressive feeling gradually overcame him, settled like a chilling haze on his brain, and stretched slow pimpling tentacles of fear over his scalp and along the entire skin surface of his body. Yet he couldn’t make his hands turn to cut the spray off, although he stared at them so intently he could have counted the drops of moisture upon them; and they stayed locked until he saw the hair rise on his forearms and the sight shocked him into wrenching the nozzle—to a noise outside the stall!

  He balanced the nozzle like a billyclub and tried to build up the nerve to turn around and look into the aisle.

  Finally, he pivoted, and listened again.

  Nothing.

  He then dared to step to and out the stall door, but tightened in terror at the crouched form of the Buzzer, all burred head and broad shoulders, a foot beyond the wheelbarrow, ready to tackle him.

  “Got yuh now, pu-unk.”

  The nozzle struck the Buzzer across the face in a pure reflex action, for Aaron turned and started to run at the same time, and he was already several steps down the aisle when Rattler and two boys came around the corner of the stalls, and he pivoted on the next step, quick with panic, foot sliding on straw and wood, and started on a hard run back toward the Buzzer again, tried running around the spread-armed, spread-legged enemy who blocked the aisle, but saw two more boys behind him, and changed direction, charged directly at the Buzzer, caught him with the best right hand he could throw, leaped with the punch, felt the jolt of knuckle and cheekbone in his shoulder, but caught a hard fist to the forehead that knocked him back, clawing at the air for support, and bounced him off his buttocks, and he struggled for his feet and reached his knees, but caught a brogan toe to the forehead that knocked him down again, and he was kept down by a barrage of kicks and punches to his head, to his ribs, to his back, to his belly, to his arms and to his legs, kept down in a clamoring tumult of grunts and yells and curses and the thump and scuffle of brogans and fists, and kept down by a belly kick that drove a toe
to his backbone, that dropped him in a sweeping faint when he tried to crawl to a stall.

  But kicks brought him back to consciousness, to the grunting moans of his breath, to the empty, suffocating bellyache, and he tried to protect his face, made a feeble attempt to cover it with his hands, to push it into the muck, but his hands were kicked away, and a shoe toe crashed into his mouth, shot blazing splinters of numbness into his brain and into every bone in every part of his body, deadened every limb, each muscle, and he knew he was out, because he could hear the thud of the brogans and feel the jerks of his body but the kicks didn’t hurt anymore, and soon the thuds became fainter, the jerks less pronounced, and they occurred less and less often, but he no longer cared, anyway, for all he wanted to do was rest on the floor, just rest on the mat of mud and straw, just rest and sleep, just rest and sleep … sleep … sleep … and soon there were no more kicks.

  Wind whispered through the bare rafters at the very peak of the barn ceiling but in shifting currents of gossip, too brief, too high, and too thin to understand.

  “We better wash that bloo-ud off his face with the hose. Clean him up a little.”

  Lifted, and then floating, and then his chest caved in, and then his squashed lungs squeezed warm, wet bubbles of breath out of his mouth with a rasping noise, like a thick-toothed file on wood.

  Snoring.

  He could hear himself sleep.

  Hear a garbled wind gust:

  “He look pretty bad.”

  Hear a pulsing, answering flurry:

  “Probably still a wise punk.”

  Hot breath choked him coming out his mouth and nose, then stung like cold spray on his face.

  “That good enough. Still bleeding. Can’t stop it.”

  “Wonder what he looks like in the ribs?”

  “Probably good and busted up, paddy-wise.”

  “Better pull off his shirt and see.”

  The sleeves plucked his arms off, leaving him stump-shouldered and cold.

  “Ribs look like a tractah run ovah ’um.”

  “Close his eyes. Spooky, with just the whites showin’.”

  And a trapped breeze moaned in a barn corner.

  But his legs were useless, too: hinged by bone-dry joints.

  Although a brisk current could sweep low, muttering:

  “That boy sure has got some white skin. Look at that belly.”

  And fitful gusts could then blow back and forth, before:

  “Bet he got a pale ass, too.”

  And a blustering rush of wind broke into gales of laughter, howled over the stall, then receded into rumbling echoes:

  “Bet a buck that boy got a sweet rump. He has. Hell. Unbuckle his pants.”

  Rumbling echoes of laughter.

  But there was a sharp change of wind. Surging, icy billows began to roll back over the stalls.

  He was cold! Where were his clothes? Where were his clothes?

  “He fink now, they send us all to Lancaster and Preston anyway.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  Cold blasts of wind blew over him. Where were his clothes?

  “Why don’ we get us some the-en?”

  Cold gales of laughter.

  “You’re shuckin’, Buzzer?”

  “He-ell no, I ain’ shuckin’. Watch.”

  Laughter.

  “Not yet, Buzzer.”

  “Why not?”

  “That little boy still got his prune, man. You’ll tear your peter up.”

  Short flurries of cold wind blew in all directions, intersected, clashed, whirled around in brief skirmishes, then, suddenly, burst upon him in a violent, chilling squall.

  “Got the butter, Rattler?”

  “Ha, ha, ha … first!”

  “You crazy, I first.”

  “Ha, ha … second!”

  “Ha! Third, then. Ha! Third!”

  “Fourth!”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.…”

  Part Nine

  Put Down and Played for Shine

  I

  A drawn window shade deadened the total white of the room, muffled the clanking of the expanding steam pipe which had disturbed Aaron’s dreams, and lulled his sleep-lazed mind. But the morning was filled with a strange, antiseptic smell, and although he rested between crisp sheets, the mattress was too level and wide beneath him. For the familiar hollow made by his own body was not there and his searching toes kept stretching until, with a start, he awoke completely, sure that he was not in his own bed, afraid that something had happened to him, and recognized a hospital room.

  He ran his fingers gently over his cracked lips, the tender puffiness which narrowed the vision of his left eye, and the hard lump on the left side of his jaw. He tried opening his mouth and his jaw creaked with pain. He carefully raised his arm to feel the egg-sized lump on his forehead and winced from the twinge of pain in his chest and shoulder. He then lowered his arm, but very slowly, and felt the broad strips of tape that bound his chest like a cast, and experienced the terror aroused by the crouched Buzzer all over again.

  He saw the grimace on the black face.

  He saw the attacking figures of Rattler and the other boys.

  Struggling to fight back, he recalled striking with the nozzle and kicked his feet into the top sheet with the effort, and caught his breath at the pang it caused, but felt a tremendous delight, and let himself lay back like a king in state, crowned by the lump on his forehead.

  His jaw twisted into a lopsided grin in spite of the suffering and the defeat, and his left eye burned with pride beneath its swollen lid. For although he couldn’t place the nozzle whack or any of the incidents in sequence, and it couldn’t have been too hard a whack or he might have escaped, he had tangled with the duke of his dormitory and four or five of his boys, bad actors in blue, and had made a knockdown, bust-em-up battle out of it. He had made them put him in the hospital and he still wouldn’t kiss their butts and he still wouldn’t let them treat him like a punk and he didn’t even have a blade!

  Now he wanted to talk about it! to brag about it! to show off his wounds! He wished that somebody would come into the room and tell him all the details of the fight and what all the guys were saying about him.

  The blast of the morning whistle relaxed him, for someone would be in soon with food, and a sigh of relief that the fight was finally over passed through his cracked lips. No more worry! The score was even now that the Buzzer and Rattler had their revenge. They had saved their reps and he still had his. He had managed to do both, after all! He had proved that he could care for Judith and the family by giving up his blade, and nobody, not anybody, would mess with a little guy who put up the battle he did. He could be like the whistle: blast like hell, but announce good things like sunlight and breakfast and dinner and Sunday visits. He could swagger through a Saturday morning boxing crowd. He could be choosy about what records he wanted to hear on the chapel lawn, and then let some other guy, maybe the Buzzer, pick first. He could look forward to visits with Judith and the family, and he could buddy up a little with Barneyway and make things easier for him, and without fear, too. For the punches and kicks, with the exception of the one that had nailed his belly to his backbone, hadn’t really hurt, not when he was busy fighting. All of his wounds, too, from the lump that ached on his forehead and drew the skin tight and must be discolored, to the eye that had to be black it was so swollen, to his cracked ribs, his puffed lips, his jaw, were banners of bravery!

  The total white of the room, softened by the drawn shade, was soothing and suited his feelings, the perfect contentment that was settling over him, the flattering pictures he had of everyone: Judith’s tattoo was a beauty mark of sophistication, Stanley was the Golden Boy in his boxing trunks, John was a great brain surgeon, a genius with a scalpel, Nora was the June Bride who walked down the church steps, under crossed swords, in a shower of rice, his father sat at the head of the Sunday dinner table, surrounded by the family, his belly braced by
its edge, his broad napkin spread like an apron from his tie knot to the rim of his plate, Barneyway entranced an institute audience with boogie woogie from a grand piano in the very center of a stage, and the Buzzer grinned his appreciation, and Rattler’s cross rocked with the rhythmic nodding of his forehead, and Aaron floated between the sheets, dozed for a short while, drifted off into mild, forgettable dreams in which there was only hospital good time until September: clean sheets and good food and reading and rest and no morning get-up, no work, no constant guard, no blades, no battles; and he awakened happily, to the pleasant sight of Buckshot’s tan face and a breakfast tray.

  “Hey, man!” he said, surprised by his hoarse voice.

  “Okay, buddy. How you feelin’?” Buckshot answered, but his eyes were a woeful brown.

  “Look like the Buzzer finally got me, alright,” Aaron croaked, trying to make a joke out of his wounds and show Buckshot how brave he was; and he waited for some complimentary remark, for some flattering expression to disturb the flawless complexion of the round face. But he was kept waiting, and he finally brushed impatiently at the bedspread, and Buckshot said, “Guess you better sit up. If you can, that is. Then I can set this tray on your lap.”

  Bands of pain tweaked across Aaron’s chest and hampered him when he tried to lift himself into a sitting position, and Buckshot set the tray quickly down on the enamel bedstand and wadded the pillow into a back brace; but after he placed the tray on Aaron’s lap, he turned to leave without making a single comment; and Aaron asked, “Hey, man, why don’t you tell me what happened? Stick around. Don’t cut out. Let’s jive a little.”

  Buckshot raised the shade, obviously stalling, raised it to shoulder height, decapitated his brown head from the silhouette of his trunk with its sharp edge, and exposed a shimmering square of iron bars and caged scrub brush through the window pane.