Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  Come Friday night, the first cars to chug up the hill came right on time, just past seven in the evening. By ten o'clock, the front yard was packed with cars and pick-up trucks, and Outland was full up, people spilling over into the side yard. Hank and me hung some Chinese paper lanterns up in the big ol' oak that grew near the house, and the queens brought in Tiki torches, lighting them and sticking them in the ground around the perimeter of the yard.

  The place looked real festive, like one of them swanky parties you see movie stars having on television. Folks were laughing and dancing, most with a beer in their hands but some without. Never forced nobody to buy a beer when they came to Outland -- that wasn't the point of having the place. The friendship, the community – that's what Outland was all about. Me and Hank didn't make hardly any money off the bar -- we only barely covered our expenses. It was more like we hosted a party at our place every weekend, but we didn't mind. Making money wasn't the reason we'd opened the bar. Making friends was, and as people came in and called out to us, waving and smiling, we figured we'd done good.

  I was feeling a little nervous, worried Bellows might try something stupid, like storming the place with his congregation in spite of the no trespassing signs I hung out. Then Shelby Joe, one of our regulars, told me he spotted a couple of cars parked off the side of the main road in the dark. He said he could see penlights flashing inside the vehicles, although he couldn't make out who the drivers were.

  I knew, though. Bellows was up to his old tricks again, I reckoned, taking down plate numbers for his cousin to publish in the Righteous Messenger. I wondered if somebody would try burning us out, like they had Jinx's, and whether the garden hose would reach out to the stable. Maybe it was time to talk to Hank about getting a few more fire extinguishers for the bar -- just in case. A couple more feet of hose, too, I reckoned.

  Miss Amanda was onstage, singing her heart out, the folks in the audience hooting and applauding. I was watching her do her thing, my foot tapping in time to the beat, when suddenly I felt somebody come in through the front door.

  I say "felt" instead of "heard” or “saw" because that's what it was like -- a feeling of cold, like an icy needle pricking my skin. I knew without looking that somebody came in that I sure as hell didn't want to see. My mama always said I had the second sight. Maybe I'm psychic. Maybe I should've opened one of them 900 numbers, like you see on infomercials on late night TV -- Beaver's Psychic Hotline, or some such -- instead of the bar. It would probably have given me less headaches.

  No way did I want to turn toward the door. I didn't want to see who it was, wanted to pretend there was nobody there, that nothing was happening. I couldn't ignore it, though, no more than I could've ignored a bullet screaming toward me. My head snapped toward the door and my balls drew up tight, and my thighs slammed together as if my body saw a kick coming and was trying to protect itself from the full impact.

  Jasper Bellows stood just inside the front door, his lips curling over his teeth like he'd just bit into rancid meat and couldn't wait to rid himself of the taste. There were several men with him, including Sanford Matthews. One of the men held a television camera with the emblem for Channel 8 News on the side, and the other, a microphone. I recognized the man with the mike right off -- Paul Collins, a reporter for Channel 8.

  "What all new hell is this?" Hank hissed in my ear. His hand gripped my forearm, fingers squeezing.

  "Calm down, Hank," I whispered back, patting his hand. "He's digging for dirt, the bastard. Probably thought he'd walk in here with a camera and catch us all in a cluster fuck or something."

  "Sinners! Sodomists! Look at them up there on the stage, men dressed in women's clothing, pretending to be something the good Lord didn't intend them to be! Wolves in sheep's clothing!" Bellows shouted, his voice rising over the singing, the music, the hooting and applause, bringing everything to a screeching halt. "This is what goes on in the sin-pits! This is what God hates! Look! Men dancing with men, women with women, kissin' and huggin', doing blasphemous things in the restrooms!"

  "Ha! That goes to show how much you know, you old rat-faced jackass! Outland ain't got a bathroom!" someone in the crowd shouted. "You ever tried to get laid in a port-a-john?"

  "Hell, that's assuming he's ever got laid. Who'd ever want to fuck that wrinkled ol' bag of ugly?" another voice chimed in.

  The crowd burst into laughter and applause, and I even saw the cameraman snicker. Oh, this was bad and going to get worse fast. I could see it coming.

  "You are sinning against God and nature!"

  "You got a problem with us, old man?" This last came from a tough-looking man in a crew cut, six feet of bristling muscle wearing an army green wifebeater and a pair of camouflage pants. I noticed dog tags hanging around his neck, and wondered if they were real. Could be -- he looked like he could've been a Marine.

  "God has a problem with you!" Bellows yelled back, completely unmoved by the possibility of having that young Marine's fist lodged in his mouth. Guess he figured nobody would have the balls to take him on, not with a camera rolling. "I'm here to say that the good, God-fearing folk of Haggerty County will not abide this snake pit in its midst! The congregation of the First Corners Church will protest, we will march on the City Hall and demand that this bar be closed down!"

  "Go on, then! Make your damn signs. March on down to the City Hall... march to the freakin' Governor's mansion or the White House if you want, just get your ass off my property right now or so help me, I'll have you thrown in jail for trespassing, Bellows!" The voice was mine, rising above the noise of the crowd, sounding a lot stronger than I felt. Inside, I was shaking like a washing machine full of Jell-O. "What happened? Was your head too far up your ass for you to notice the no trespassing signs?"

  Bellows' face turned almost the same purple as the walls. Eggplant, Hank's voice said in my mind, and I felt a hysterical little giggle rising up. I managed to choke it down afore it got loose, though. Lord knows what might of happened if I started laughing at the foul little worm. Maybe I should have. Maybe he would've snapped and went for my throat. I could have had him on assault, had him put away for a good, long time, and it would've all been over before it really began.

  Instead, he got quiet for a minute, staring at me like he was studying a slimy bug under a microscope, his eyes bugging out like two hard-boiled eggs. "So be it. This is a battle between Good and Evil. We will meet you stroke for stroke! War has come to Haggerty County, and God's army will smite you heathens with a single stroke of his Heavenly sword!"

  "For a man of God, you sure do talk a lot about strokin'!" somebody called out. The crowd laughed again, and I saw the reporter try to cover a grin. He motioned the cameraman, who lowered his equipment, laughing. I guessed the show was over as far as they were concerned.

  Bellows turned and stomped out, but the reporter paused and faced the crowd. "Sorry about this, folks. He told us he had a confirmed source who stated there were drugs and sex and what-all going on in here. All I see is a crowd of people having a good time. I guarantee you he's not going to like my report when it airs." He gave me a wink and left, followed by his cameraman.

  Everybody cheered, and I felt relief lower my blood pressure and some of that Jell-O in my gut harden up again. Still, I knew Bellows was going to be fit to be tied if he didn't get his fifteen minutes of fame. He wanted the spotlight on himself and wouldn't give up until he got it. If the reporter was telling the truth, and the story wasn't favorable to Bellows, he sure as shit wasn't going to be happy. There was no telling what Bellows might do next. I wondered what his next move would be, and whether it might involve a gasoline can and a match.

  Chapter Four

  The rest of the weekend passed without incident. Oh, tongues wagged for hours after Bellows left Outland. Some folks were riled up enough to want to go after him; others wanted to make some signs and march down to City Hall themselves. Took a good long while for me, Hank, and Miss Amanda to calm everybody down, to make them se
e reason, but eventually we did. The show was over for the night, though, and we unplugged the jukebox. Nobody seemed much in the mood for dancing anymore anyway.

  A month or more went by, and while Outland continued to be hopping busy on the weekends, I kept getting the feeling a storm was brewing. It wasn't anything I could put my finger on -- just quick sideways glances from some of Bellow's folk when I was in town, but they left me with a peculiar feeling. They'd turn away right quick enough, but I could see them whispering among themselves and felt animosity in the air, thick as flapjack syrup. I could sense big ol' thunderheads boiling up, heading in our direction and getting closer by the minute, and figured it was only a matter of time before the heavens opened up and all hell broke loose.

  Turned out I was right, and when the storm hit, it made me wonder whether Hank and me should've built an ark instead of a bar.

  A Monday came with rain, one of those days when the sky is so dark with black clouds it seems the night had never ended. It sliced in sideways, blown by a gusty wind, battering the window like a billion tiny fists trying to break the pane. Thunder rolled and lightning briefly lit the sky in brilliant streaks.

  Hank and me stayed in bed long past the time we usually got up. Maybe it was because of the weather -- Hank always said rainy days were meant for lying in bed and screwing until the sheets were as wet as the grass outside. Could be it was because we'd been working so hard and we felt completely drained, without a drop of energy to spare. Either way, I spooned myself around him, throwing a leg up over his and an arm over his waist. I couldn't sleep, but didn't want to get up, neither. I lay awake watching the arms on the bedside clock tick slowly around the face. Damn clock was as old as I was, and unlike me, it was a Timex and kept on ticking no matter what.

  I kept feeling like something was going to happen. Again, it might have been the weather, but I didn't think so. I felt it deep in the marrow of my bones, and knew whatever was coming was going to be bad, like the time my cousin Eddie was racing along the train tracks with a bunch of his friends. They were playing chicken, hopping back and forth across the tracks. He fell, knocked himself out cold on the rail, and met his maker riding the cowcatcher of an eastbound passenger train. That morning, I woke up screaming, although I didn't know why. Then I heard my Mama crying in the kitchen, and I knew something horrible had happened before she told me about Eddie.

  Mama always told me I was born with a caul over my head, a sure sign of the second sight. It was at times like these that I was sorely tempted to believe her, although I usually didn't put much stock in old wives' tales like that.

  The same feeling I'd had the day Eddie died, a sorrow icy cold and bone deep, froze my innards that rainy Monday morning, and when the phone rang, I knew I'd been right. I didn't want to answer it, knowing in my blood that it was gonna be bad news. Then I swallowed hard and reached for the phone. I wasn't going to let Hank get it -- no sense in tempting either fate or his heart.

  "Hello?"

  "B--Beaver?" It was Miss Ginger, Ashley, and he was crying.

  Oh, Lord, I thought, not Fargo.

  "What's happened?" I managed to ask, finding it hard to talk with a lump the size of a boulder lodged in my throat. Hank sat up next to me, face gone pale. I'm sure he could tell by the sound of my voice that whatever the news I was getting, it wasn't good.

  "F--Fargo's hurt. Oh, God, he's hurt so bad, Beaver!"

  "What is it, Beaver?" Hank asked, but I shushed him with a shake of my head.

  "You at the hospital?" I asked. "Anybody else there with you?"

  "I--I called Mama Amanda. She's coming," Ashley said, hiccupping and sniffing. "Beaver, we was just--"

  "Save the story for when I get there, son. Just hold it together and stay with Fargo until then. We're on our way." I hung up the phone and turned to Hank. I put a hand on his shoulder, not sure if I was trying to steady him or me. "Fargo's hurt. He's in the hospital, and Ashley's with him. We got to go."

  Hank was up and off the bed, shoving his legs into his pants before I could swing mine over the side of the mattress. Lord, I never saw him move so fast. I hustled myself into my clothes and shoes, and grabbed my wallet and the keys to the truck, ignoring the pain in my hip caused by the damp weather. "You take your pills with you, Hank. You may need 'em afore the day is out. I ain't gonna have both Fargo and you laid up in the hospital."

  Providing Fargo was still in the hospital and not on his way to the funeral home. Ashley made it sound like --

  No. Don't go thinking like that, I chided myself. Don't bury him until you've seen him gone with your own eyes. It might be nothing worse than a broken leg, or such.

  We ducked out into the rain; plastered to the skin in the time it took us to cross the yard to the driveway and climb into the truck. I must have done eighty all the way there, the truck bucking under us, tires bouncing over potholes, rain so fast and furious the wiper blades could barely keep up.

  It was a miracle I didn't wrap us around a tree. Instead, I pulled into the hospital parking lot under the red Emergency Room sign, turned the truck off and got out, hopping along after Hank, my hip and knees arguing every step of the way.

  We stood in front of the reception desk, dripping onto the tile floor, little puddles forming around our feet. "There's a boy here, name's Fargo Green," Hank said, sounding a little wheezy.

  "Are y'all his kin?" The receptionist was a tired-looking black woman, hair shot through with gray. She had kindly eyes, but I wasn't about to push our luck.

  "Yes, ma'am," I answered before Hank could say anything. "We're his uncles." It was close enough to the truth -- we were more family to Fargo than his blood kin were.

  "He's in cubicle eleven. Straight through those doors, make a right, then a left. It's the second cubicle on the left. You're gonna need to get his insurance information and bring it back to me."

  I grabbed Hank's elbow and pulled him away from the desk, heading toward the doors she'd pointed to, ignoring the sign that said, "Emergency Room. One Visitor Per Bedside." Insurance? Was she crazy? The last thing on our minds was whether or not Fargo had any insurance. All we cared about was if he did, he'd be alive to use it.

  The smell hit me right off, as soon as we passed through the doors. It smelled like pine disinfectant, piss, and blood. We passed by cubicles, some with open curtains, some closed. People lay in each of them, most quiet, a few moaning, machines beeping and whooshing.

  Hank and me paused for a minute outside of cubicle eleven, a knowing glance and a silent agreement passing between us. Whatever was behind that curtain, whatever we saw, we'd be strong for Fargo. Without saying it, we knew if the worst was to happen, well, then we'd be strong for each other. I took a deep breath as Hank did the same and reached for the curtain, pulling it open.

  Fargo lay on his back under a spider web of wires and IV tubes. He'd been beaten -- that much was clear right off. I'd never seen anybody take such a walloping -- there didn't seem to be an inch of his face, neck, and shoulders that wasn't purple and swollen. His nose must have been broken -- it was taped and stuffed with cotton. From the way his lips were split and puffed-up I guessed he'd lost a few teeth, too, and maybe had a broken jaw to boot.

  Worst of all, he wasn't moving. Not a muscle, not an eyelash. For a minute, I thought he was dead, and felt my knees turn to water. Then I noticed his chest rising and falling under the thin, white sheet that covered the rest of him. My hand reached for Hank's, clutching it tightly enough to cut off the circulation to his fingers.

  Ashley looked up at us from the side of Fargo's bed. His wig was gone, his short hair plastered to his skull, still dripping wet from the rain. His dress and hose were tore up, and his makeup ran down his cheeks in long, black drips. He stood up on shaky legs, then launched himself into Hank's arms, burying his face against Hank's chest, sobbing.

  "I--I was driving F--Fargo home 'cause he spent the n--night at my place. T--They were waiting for us at Fargo's house!" Ashley cried, his voice muffl
ed against Hank's shirt. "They jumped us from the bushes! I got away and ran for help! Oh, God! I shouldn't have run. I should've--"

  "Shh," Hank said, looking at me as he patted Ashley on the back. "No sense in singing the shoulda-couldas. You'd be lying in the next bed if'n you stayed, Ashley. You did the right thing, son."

  I wasn't sure if I agreed, but I held my tongue. "What did the doctors say?" I asked when Ashley's sobs quieted to wet sniffles. "Ashley? What did they say?"

  "He's got broken ribs, a busted jaw and nose, and a slight concussion. They said that stuff wasn't too bad, but he's bleeding on the inside," Ashley whimpered. "They need to operate, and they don't know if he's gonna make it, Beaver!"

  Oh, Lord. I felt tears stinging at my eyes, and wiped them away with a hard swipe of the back of my hand. Not now. Not gonna break down yet. Gotta see Fargo through this first, I thought. I walked up to the bed, and gently touched Fargo's hand. I noticed his knuckles were swollen and split -- he'd gotten in a few licks of his own. Good for you, Fargo. Hope you scarred the bastard for life. Hope you fucking gelded him.