‘Merritt ate five,’ Eric said. ‘Jack and I had two each, and Mrs Skidmore had one.’
‘Five! Goddamn, Merritt, I hope you get indigestion tonight!’
‘I beat Jack,’ Eric said. ‘I beat him at Monopoly and then we played Snap and I beat him at that, too. Do you want to play a game, Otis?’
‘Not at this hour. Time we was all turnin’ in. Got us an early start in the mornin’.’
‘Good call, Bob. He cheats like you wouldn’t believe. If my name was Esau, he’d have my birthright by now. We should start calling him Jacob.’
Eric cleared the board from the table and put it back in the cupboard. He and Jack then said their goodnights and returned to the bus.
‘We never said goodnight to Mrs Skidmore and Doctor Gene,’ Eric said.
‘We’ll say it to them when we see them in the morning, Jacob.’
‘And stop calling me Jacob – Esau!’ As Jack could remember, it was the first joke Eric had made. He smiled.
It was another cold morning, but at least the day had started dry. Jack and Eric went into the house and joined the others for breakfast. Merritt had made pancakes and fried some bacon. He poured coffee into their cups and then sat down at the table with them.
‘I’m expectin’ you sometime in the New Year, Merritt, an’ I ain’t wantin’ to hear no excuses. Chamber o’ Commerce ain’t gonna’ miss you fo’ a couple o’ weeks an’ the change’ll do you good. Get you away from all that horseshit. I’m bettin’ once you ain’t here, Spencer’s horse’ll get itself all constipated an’ there’ll be nothin’ for you to shovel once you get back.’
‘I will, T-Bone. I promise. My ankle will have mended by then.’
‘I’ll pick you up at the airport; we’ll stay a few days in Seattle an’ then head to the mountain cabin. Might well put you to work there.’
Doc said nothing. He envied the plans they were making, the futures they could look forward to.
‘Can I have Mrs Skidmore’s other pancake?’ Eric asked.
‘Sure,’ Doc said. ‘It doesn’t look like she’ll be eating it.’
‘I can make some more,’ Merritt said. They thanked him but declined his offer. It was time to make tracks.
‘If you’da offered me a rum bun, I’da said yes, Merritt, but I keep forgettin’ you ate ’em all.’
‘I guess this is as good a time to go as any,’ Doc smiled. ‘I’ll go pack.’
‘We’re packed aren’t we, Jack?’ Eric said.
‘We never unpacked. Did you pick up your washed clothes?’
‘No one picked up their clothes,’ Merritt said. ‘I put them in the bus – front lounge. You’ll need to sort them.’
Doc carried his and Nancy’s bags into the lounge and waited there while Bob finished using the bathroom.
‘He’s taking a long time in there, isn’t he?’ Jack asked. ‘How long does it take him to do a dump?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, and I’m sure it’s something that Nancy doesn’t want to know either. Sometimes…’ He shook his head.
‘Man alive, I got to get me mo’ reg’lar,’ Bob said, when he joined them. ‘That was like givin’ birth to a baby!’
As they left the house, Bob turned to Merritt. ‘One mo’ thing, Merritt.’
‘What’s that, T-Bone?’ Merritt asked.
‘Get that lump on your neck seen to!’
Merritt’s hand reflexively touched the long scar there. ‘What lump?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Yo’ damned head, man! Ha!’
6
Nashville
Missed Deaths and Dreams
‘I’m tellin’ you, Francis Nash were an extortioner. They named the city after a corrup’ court official,’ Bob said. ‘You ain’t heard o’ the Regulator Wars?’
No one had, but sat quietly while Bob explained the episode to them: the rich and powerful of North Carolina beating up on the poor and powerless of North Carolina in the late eighteenth century.
‘But then Francis gets his self killed in the War o’ Independence an’ becomes a war hero. You know why? Cos elites honour their own, that’s why! Ordinary folks not good enough to be war heroes. You ask ’em the names o’ common folk what got ’emselves killed in battle and you ain’t never gonna get an answer. They the invisible ones. Disappear from hist’ry like ink in the damn rain, man. Not Francis, though. Ole Francis gets towns, counties an’ schools named after him, an’ Nashville, Tennessee’s jus’ one of ’em. How’s that for a piece of shit?’
‘He wasn’t a nice man, was he?’ Eric said. ‘Would you have been a Regulator if you’d been alive in those days, Doctor Gene? Doctor Gene!’
Doc was miles away, and Eric’s question caught him off guard. He’d dreamt of Sydney that night and the vision had unsettled him. Sydney had been alive again, reprieved from eternity for a short while and doing handstands in the backyard of his house, talking excitedly with neighbours and laughing. Doc couldn’t remember if they’d had a conversation or not and woke with a hollow feeling. He missed Sydney and regretted not being with him when he died. Doc had been present for the deaths of many of his patients, but never for those of people who’d mattered to him: Beth, Esther, Sydney, his parents.
The death of his mother troubled him the most. He’d visited his parents’ house the day she died but had spent the time with his father. He’d looked into his mother’s room but hadn’t entered; neither had he spoken to her, sat with her or held her hand, and – most shameful of all – not even kissed her goodbye when he left the house. He’d persuaded himself it was an act of kindness not to disturb her, but who had he been kidding? He knew he’d been sparing himself, not his mother; safeguarding himself from the unsettling spectacle of life draining from her body.
His mother had died alone. He remembered visiting her body at the funeral home, her waxen effigy clothed in Sunday’s best; kissing her on the forehead and being surprised by the coldness of her skin; whispering he loved her, before realising that his mother was long gone and unable to hear his words. He swore he would never make the same mistake with his father – but he did, and his father also died alone.
Doc had visited him on the day of his death, too; dropping off a prescription and cooking his lunch. His father had come down with a bug and was suffering from diarrhoea, but his condition – in Doc’s opinion – wasn’t serious, and certainly not life threatening. What he’d failed to take into account was that his father had lost the will to live.
He’d stayed for a while, but his father had been a reluctant conversationalist. Eventually, he took his leave and promised to return the following day and check on his progress; if his condition worsened, his father was to call him immediately. In the event his father had phoned, but only to ask his son to bring a newspaper with him when he came to the house. All had seemed well.
Doc had phoned his father the following morning but there’d been no answer. This wasn’t unusual: his father had grown into the habit of ignoring the phone when it suited him, and rarely checked the answering machine for messages. Doc made several more calls and still there’d been no answer. His concern, at first pettifogging, started to grow, and once the morning’s surgery had ended he’d driven immediately to his father’s house.
The door had been locked and he used his own key to gain entry. Immediately he’d sensed something was wrong. He called out his father’s name but there’d been no answer; the downstairs rooms were empty and the lights were on. He remembered taking a deep breath and preparing himself for the worst, climbing the stairs and finding his father lying face down on the bathroom floor, dried faeces on his pants and shoes. He’d rolled the old man gently on to his back and straightaway known he was dead.
He’d phoned for an ambulance, and then sat quietly while the medics examined the body and pronounced his father officially dead. He’d answered the questions of a policeman who’d arrived in their tow, and waited while he satisfied himself that all was well and nothing untoward. He’d then phone
d the funeral home. Two sombrely-dressed men arrived and manoeuvred his father’s body into a thick plastic bag. He’d watched as they struggled with the zip fastener, and observed his father disappearing from view as the two sets of teeth slowly interlocked. It was the last time he’d seen his father: he decided against viewing his body at the funeral home.
‘I just find it strange we didn’t talk,’ Doc said.
‘What I find strange is that my father was doing handstands when he couldn’t even do a push-up,’ Jack said. ‘I wouldn’t read too much into it, Doc. Some dreams aren’t meant to be understood. Mine are more straightforward. I dream about Laura and losing my hair. I can understand those.’
‘I’ve heard of people dreaming about losing their teeth, but never their hair,’ Doc smiled. ‘You must be one hell of a special person, Jack.’
‘You know how long a person dreams fo’ in his life?’ Bob asked, averting his eyes from the road.
‘I’ll have a guess if you promise not to turn around again,’ Doc said. ‘The last thing we need is for you to rear-end someone.’
‘I can talk an’ drive, Gene. T-Bone Tribble’s a multitaskin’ Renaissance man, or ain’t you noticed?’
‘Six months?’ Jack guessed.
‘Not even close! Mo’ like six years, is what. You figure it this way: a person spends a third of his life sleepin’, an’ ever’ time he sleeps he dreams fo’ ’bout two hours. All adds up, man. Six whole years, an’ most of us cain’t even remem’er what we was dreamin’ ’bout! ’Mazed you even dream, Gene, ’mount you snore.’
‘Why? Does one preclude the other?’
‘Sure it do. Dreamin’ an’ snorin’ ain’t compatible – even I cain’t multitask ’em. You get recurrin’ dreams, Gene?’
‘One,’ Doc said. ‘I dream I’m in outer space, sitting in the back of a dump truck and looking down on the earth. It’s night-time and the planet’s lit up and looking pretty as a picture. Then the bed of the truck starts to rise and I start sliding down it. There’s nothing I can hold on to that will save me from falling into the blackness and I keep on sliding… and that’s when I wake up.’
‘Soun’s like an anxiety dream, Gene. Fallin’s a classic – jus’ like teeth. You ever dream ’bout gravy? I get that one all the time. Scares me to death, too.’
‘How can gravy scare you to death?’ Doc asked.
‘Jus’ does. I’m sittin’ in a restaurant, an’ a waiter spills gravy down my neck, though I don’t feel it at the time. Once the meal’s overed with, I go outside an’ it’s then I feel it. I put my han’ there an’ it comes back covered in gravy, an’ then when I put my han’ there again, it comes back covered in blood an’ my damn head falls off!
‘You notice how I al’ays sits in a booth or with my back to a wall when I go any place to eat? That’s why I does it. I figure it some kinda warnin’. Laugh all you wan’, Jack. Dreamin’ ’bout yo’ hair fallin’ out’s nothin’ compared with dreamin’ yo’ head falls off.’
‘My dreams are always good,’ Eric said.
‘That’s because you’re a young man who’s led a good life,’ Doc said. ‘Get to our age and you’ll be going to bed with a conscience – and that’s another story altogether. Enjoy your dreams while you can, son.’
‘Hey, Gene: you ever dream o’ me?’ Bob asked.
‘Why?’
‘’Cos I charge a royalty fee o’ ten bucks an appearance. Figure out how much you owe me, an’ then deduct $20. I only dreamed o’ you twice, an’ you weren’t that interessin’ in either one of ’em!’
The Bible According to Otis Sistrunk
Jack went to the rear lounge to remove pieces of gravel stuck in the soles of his sneakers, and picked up the first implement to hand. He was focusing on the job when Nancy walked in and sat down opposite. She stared at him.
‘Hi, Nancy,’ Jack said. ‘How are you today?’
For a while she said nothing and just stared. ‘Who are you?’ she asked eventually.
‘I’m Jack, Nancy. Doc’s godson. I helped rescue you from the nursing home, remember?’
Nancy eyed him suspiciously. ‘It was Gene and his wife who took me from there.’
‘That was me, Nancy. I was dressed in women’s clothing. Think about it: if it was Doc’s wife who helped rescue you, where is she now? I don’t see her on the bus.’
‘She died,’ Nancy said, showing no emotion. ‘She asked me to look after him. Are you going to stab me with that?’
‘Why would I want to do that? Besides, it’s a letter opener, not a knife.’
‘It makes no difference. If you jabbed me with it, I’d still bleed like a stuck pig.’
Jack was taken aback and, unsure of what to say next, said nothing.
‘Do you ever worry someone might stab you with it?’ Nancy continued.
‘No, now let’s change the subject. What are you looking forward to in Nashville?’
Nancy said nothing and continued to stare.
Doc entered the lounge. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘I honestly don’t know, Doc. I think Nancy’s trying to stare me to death.’
‘Careful, Gene: he’s got a knife!’ Nancy said.
‘Letter opener,’ Jack corrected.
In the hope that a period of rest would help, Doc suggested that he and Nancy go to the sleeping compartment. He looked at his watch: another six hours before they reached Nashville. The journey would be hardest on Bob, the only person in the group capable of driving the bus – even though his licence was a fake. Bob, however, was nothing if not resilient, and as long as no one spilt gravy down his neck, Doc was confident they’d arrive in Nashville safely.
He’d decided they should now stick to the planned route and make no more detours. Although he doubted the potential for any pursuer from the nursing home to be hot on their heels, or for that matter even knowing in which direction their heels were travelling, the conspicuous nature of the bus still troubled him. The interstate, he believed, was a place of safety, and so too would Nashville be, where tour buses, he imagined, would be two a penny. Doc had also made up his mind that he and Nancy would stay in a hotel for the next two nights: it would be a treat for both of them. He asked Bob to book them into the Union Hotel and admired the man’s carefulness when, after having made the call, he threw away the SIM card.
Jack remained in the rear lounge, disconcerted by his conversation with Nancy, while Eric sat up front with Bob and asked him about the Bible.
‘Do you believe in God, Otis?’
‘I b’lieve in God, Eric, but I ain’t sure I b’lieve in the Bible. To my way o’ thinkin’, it’s easier to b’lieve in God if you don’t read the Bible…’ He then elaborated.
God was a one off. Although He’d created man in His own image, He himself didn’t have a body, and was neither male nor female. He’d always existed and He always would; God was incomparable, simultaneously everywhere and capable of anything. He was fair-minded and compassionate: he punished the wicked, rewarded the good and forgave sins. God had chosen to reveal Himself to the Jewish people and then come to an agreement with them: in return for total obedience, He would take good care of them.
There had never been a shortage of gods in the ancient world: they existed for every day of the week and for every occasion. All were attributed with mysterious powers that distinguished them from mortals, but in conduct their behaviour was little better than that of modern day celebrities. The God of the Jews was a radical departure from anything that had gone before: for a start there was only one of Him, and He behaved like a gentleman. He was also ethical and innately good. But then the Jews subverted Him, buried Him in their own humanity, and this, Bob claimed, was the God who appeared in the Old Testament.
‘Scaries’ muthafucker to walk the earth,’ Bob said, before quickly apologising for his language. ‘If you’da seen the man comin’ towards you on the street, you’da crossed over quick as you could or ducked into a doorway. No tellin’ what kinda m
ood the man mighta been in. Difficult to b’lieve Him and Jesus was even related, never min’ father an’ son.’
The mercurial thug who roamed the pages of the Old Testament was indeed scary. He was acquainted with vengeance and retribution, but seemingly unaware of kindliness, forgiveness and compassion. His language was one of violence. He threatened – and often delivered – cruel and horrible punishments: death by sword, famine, fire, evil beasts and pestilences that rotted flesh, eyes and tongues. ‘It woulda been safer fo’ ever’one if they’da jus’ locked Him up in a prison some place,’ Bob said.
The Bible was littered with examples of His petty and vindictive nature – traits more human than divine. He opened and closed wombs at will, made wives leprous for a week and tormented people with evil spirits and tumours. He killed people for getting ceremonies wrong, touching the Ark by accident, picking up sticks on the wrong day and eating in the wrong place.
‘You’ll know all this from yo’ own readin’ o’ the Bible, Eric, but you ain’t got to take no note. This ain’t God: it people sayin’ it God to make sense o’ somethin’ that makes no sense. Old Testament defaces God, makes Him out to be a real son-of-a-bitch an’ gives people too many reasons not to b’lieve in Him. They ever make a film o’ the Old Testament, they’d give it one o’ them X certif’cates. Too much weird stuff goin’ on.’
Apart from His aversion to dwarves, hunchbacks and the handicapped in general, and His refusal to allow them to play a full role in society, God had other intolerances. Some made sense: who could disagree with His pronouncements that misleading a blind man on the road was wrong, or that bowel motions should be made in holes outside the perimeter of a camp rather than within it? There were others, however, that were plain draconian: stubborn and rebellious sons, adulterers, and women who pretended to be virgins when they married could be stoned to death. And pity the poor woman who intervened in a fight to protect her husband from the attack of another man and made the mistake of grabbing the assailant by his private parts: her hand would be amputated!
Last Bus to Coffeeville Page 36
