Black Hammock

by Michael Wiley

  Lexi jumped into the yard and got the book from the sandy dirt. Its old binding was broken. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she yelled.

  EIGHTEEN

  Lexi

  Cristofer and Paul the driver were still gone at noon. Edgar Allan walked out to the bridge to use his cell phone. When he came back he sat on the porch swing. Mom was lying on the ground by the charred wood and ash where her studio had been. Dirt streaked her face. She’d scratched her cheeks bloody. Her eyes were red. Her legs were splayed. Tilson had come into the yard to see what he could do but Walter had sent him away. Now Walter was up on the house with a bucket of tar. Painting the roof with a thick slick black coat. As if that would repair the damage done.

  Because tar had held the house together for a hundred and fifty years.

  It had kept out summer winds and rain. It had warmed against the winter cold. Once it had blunted a pine tree that fell through the front roof in a lightning storm. Mom said it had held out a hurricane that swept over the island when her dad was a boy. Swept over but mostly stayed outside of the tar-sealed walls. Leaked in only through the rag-stuffed cracks between the door and the doorframe.

  I answered the phone when the policeman Daniel Turner called again from the bridge. Then I walked over the hill without asking Walter. Daniel Turner drove in. Swung his car close to the porch. Walked over to the black fire scar. He scuffed the ashes with a shoe. A curl of smoke rose. He smelled the air like a hunter or tracker. He looked at Mom. Came back to the house.

  He called up to Walter on the roof. ‘You weren’t going to report this?’

  Walter looked at him. Looked at his tar-brush. Looked back at him like he was thinking of throwing tar on him. He said, ‘The fire department knew. If they needed to tell you, they would. Is it a crime to burn down a shed?’

  ‘Depends on how it burns,’ Daniel Turner said. ‘Depends on if it’s insured or the paintings are. Depends on if anyone gets hurt.’

  Walter said, ‘It burned fast and hot. No insurance. No one hurt.’

  ‘Who started it?’ Daniel Turner asked.

  ‘It’s got to be a who?’ Walter said.

  Daniel Turner had sweat on his forehead. The bottom of his neck was pink where the sun or his collar had bothered it. ‘What started it then?’ he asked.

  Walter pointed the brush at the hill. He said, ‘You can let yourself out.’

  ‘I don’t know why you won’t talk to me,’ Daniel Turner said.

  ‘The gate is where it’s always been,’ Walter said. ‘Lock it behind you.’ He dipped the brush into the can of tar and started painting the roof again.

  Daniel Turner went back to Mom and sat on the ground. Her scratched face was raw. Her eyes seemed to look into her brain. ‘Hey,’ he said. Kindly. When she didn’t answer he asked, ‘Did you lose everything?’ Still no answer. ‘Where is Cristofer?’ he asked.

  That brought her back from wherever she was hiding. ‘Don’t blame him,’ she said. ‘He was sleeping when it started.’

  He nodded. But asked, ‘Where is he?’

  She sank into herself.

  ‘No one would hold him accountable,’ he said. ‘But if he’s a danger …’

  Nothing.

  He stood and wiped the dust and sand off the seat of his pants. He said, ‘A big fire for a small building.’

  Mom cocked her head like she was just realizing who she was talking to. ‘I smoke,’ she said. ‘I use oil-based paints. I use turpentine.’

  ‘You smoked inside the shed?’ Daniel Turner said.

  ‘All the time,’ Mom said.

  ‘In the middle of the night?’

  ‘I smoke,’ she said.

  Walter stood at the peak of the roof. And said, ‘Get off the property unless you have a legal reason to be here.’

  Daniel Turner said back, ‘Where’s Cristofer?’

  Walter said nothing.

  Daniel Turner wiped the sweat off his neck. He went to the porch. ‘What did you see?’ he asked Edgar Allan.

  Edgar Allan said, ‘Last night?’

  Daniel Turner sighed. ‘Yes. Last night.’

  Edgar Allan seemed to think about it. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I was sleeping. Then the shed caught fire.’

  ‘And you didn’t see what made it catch fire?’ Daniel Turner asked.

  Again he seemed to think. ‘No.’

  Daniel Turner ran his hand over his scalp. ‘You’re a bunch of fools,’ he said. ‘I should leave you to yourselves. You deserve no more.’

  ‘Nothing we would like better,’ Walter said.

  But Daniel Turner spoke to Edgar Allan. ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘These people call me Edgar Allan,’ he said.

  ‘Do they? And what do others call you?’

  ‘Which others?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t be smart,’ Daniel Turner said. ‘What’s your legal name?’

  Once more he thought. ‘I’m not sure I have one,’ he said. ‘Strictly speaking.’

  Daniel Turner spit on the ground. ‘You deserve whatever you get,’ he said. He went back to his car and drove out over the hill. Kicking up a cloud of sand and dust so thick and yellow it looked like it should rain.

  Walter said to me, ‘Next time the detective comes you don’t let him in the gate. I don’t care if I’m dying.’

  NINETEEN

  Oren

  Cristofer and Paul were still gone when the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in and dropped wires of lightning into the ocean beyond the road and dunes, scattering the black flies that buzzed above the buried chickens, washing the ashes and soot from Kay’s studio into little streams and pools that seeped into the sand. Kay stayed in the yard, a mound of grief in the rainwater, until Walter climbed down from the roof and took her inside. Lexi sat on the porch floor, her broken Bible by her side, watching me as I swung on the porch swing.

  She said, ‘You never told me your story last night.’

  So I said, ‘Once upon a time, a little boy disappeared – a little boy named Oren. All the adults asked, Where is Oren?’

  ‘Is that your name?’ she said.

  ‘Do you want the story or not?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  I said, ‘The adults searched the house and neighborhood calling for Oren, but he didn’t come. It was as if he had become invisible, as if a magician had put him in a box and put the box in a room and turned off the lights and locked the door, and when the others opened the room and shined light in the box, the boy was gone.’ I stared at her.

  She showed no recognition. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  I said, ‘The little boy hadn’t really become invisible, though you could turn on every light in the house and inspect the box from every angle using mirrors and probes. The trick was that he no longer was in the box or even the house. He had traveled to—’

  ‘Forget it,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t like the story?’

  She said, ‘I don’t like how you tell it.’

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ I said. ‘The story tells itself.’

  She leaped up.

  I said, ‘Or I suppose you could blame me …’

  But Paul was coming from the pine woods through the heavy rain, carrying Cristofer. Cristofer seemed to be convulsing in Paul’s arms. Lexi ran to him and I followed, slipping on the wet ground, the rain slapping our faces. Paul stopped and waited, with Cristofer jerking and flailing against his big body.

  Paul was grinning. Cristofer was also – grinning and laughing so hard he made no sound. When Paul saw me, he laughed too and tossed Cristofer into the air and caught him. But when he noticed Lexi’s worry, he tried to set Cristofer down.

  Cristofer clasped Paul’s shoulders and hugged his chest. His eyes were big and bright with rain or happiness or both.

  Lexi asked him, ‘Are you …’

  He flailed and laughed in Paul’s arms.

  Paul said, ‘You’ve got a terrific brother.’

  Lexi yelled at him. �
��Where have you been?’

  Paul held Cristofer close. ‘We went walking in the woods,’ he said, as if she’d asked an unreasonable question. ‘Everything got crazy here with the fire, so I thought we would get out of the way.’

  ‘You were gone almost eight hours,’ Lexi said.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Paul said. ‘We hung out. Your brother told me about the trees and the animals. He knows everything about these woods.’

  Lexi looked furious. ‘Cristofer doesn’t talk,’ she said. ‘He grunts and keens. Sometimes he signs yes or no.’

  ‘Oh,’ Paul said, and tossed Cristofer into the air.

  Cristofer flailed and laughed a raw laugh. Rainwater flung from his cheeks and his hair.

  ‘Put him down,’ Lexi said.

  Paul looked as if he might challenge her, but I also said, ‘Put him down.’ So he whispered something to Cristofer and set him on his feet. Cristofer stared like he knew he was in trouble.

  Lexi asked him, ‘Did you burn Mom’s studio?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll keep Walter from you,’ she said, ‘but I need to know.’

  A low keen came from his throat.

  ‘Do you know who burned it?’ she asked.

  The keen grew louder.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Paul said. ‘He didn’t do it.’ The rain came down hard, splattering our legs with mud.

  ‘He needs to let me know,’ Lexi said. ‘Cristofer’ – she went to him and held his wet hands – ‘did you or didn’t you?’

  He made a sound that could have meant anything. Then he pulled his hands from her and ran back toward the woods.

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ Paul said.

  ‘Go,’ I told him, and he ran after Cristofer.

  Lexi and I went back to the porch and sat on the swing. The rain was falling in sheets, fogging the air, and Cristofer and Paul disappeared long before they reached the pine woods.

  I said, ‘Once upon a time, there was a body snatcher.’

  Lexi glared at me and said, ‘I’m not up for it.’

  I watched her and wondered whose side she would take when our mother and Walter started to bleed. She’d been a baby when they killed our dad – too young to remember him. As far as I could tell, she knew nothing of me. I said, ‘Did you know that Keith Richards once told an interviewer that he snorted his dead dad’s ashes? He mixed them with cocaine. I think it was deeply loving of him in a rock ’n’ roll kind of way.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Lexi said, and got up.

  ‘These are the things you learn when you have a job like mine,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe it’s time to get a new job,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Did you know that Ted Williams’ son preserved his dad’s body? Cryogenics. He froze the old man. Stiff as a baseball bat.’

  Lexi went into the house and let the screen door slap shut behind her, but I kept talking in case she was still listening.

  ‘Baseball players use pine tar on their bats,’ I said. ‘It improves the grip. Ted Williams’ son could have saved a few bucks by using pine tar on his dad instead of putting him in the deep freeze. That’s more or less how the Egyptians did their mummies. Resin from the Cedar of Lebanon. Smear some on a hall-of-famer and he’ll keep for three thousand years.’

  TWENTY

  Lexi

  An hour later the rain came hard. I was hungry. For more than food. I checked the cabinets anyway. Checked the refrigerator. Empty almost.

  Outside an engine roared. Then hummed. In the rain. Like a song.

  I looked out the window. Lane Charles was on his tractor at the side of his cane field.

  ‘Goddamned fool,’ Walter said.

  Hard to argue.

  Lane Charles turned the tractor. Turned it again. Started toward our yard. Ran into a muddy ditch. Could have been drunk.

  ‘What did I say?’ Walter said.

  The tractor wheels turned in the ditch. Climbed the bank. Slipped. Lane Charles opened the throttle. Mud fountained from the tires. Stuck.

  ‘Ha,’ said Walter.

  But Edgar Allan left the porch and walked into the rain. Went to Lane Charles and yelled at him something that sounded like rain and more rain. Lane Charles climbed down from the tractor. They walked to his barn together. Came back with a chain.

  Lane Charles got on to the tractor and opened the throttle.

  Edgar Allan tugged the chain. Shook like he was breaking his back. Edgar Allan in his blue suit. And polished shoes. Up to his ankles in mud.

  ‘Stupid way to do it,’ Walter said.

  The tractor climbed the bank. Slipped back. Climbed again. Rose from the ditch. The tires gripping the sand and the dirt. Lane Charles hollering and laughing like a drunk man.

  ‘That was nice,’ I said when Edgar Allan came inside to dry off.

  ‘That was goddamned foolish,’ Walter said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Oren

  The rain kept falling into the early evening, and when the clouds finally opened and exposed blue sky, Lexi called toward the pine woods for Cristofer to come home. Wedges of evening sunlight glistened on the wet soil and swirled dark oily rainbows in the fresh tar on the roof. An egret flew over the yard. Lexi called for Cristofer again, and the wet land absorbed the sound.

  Kay and Walter disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door. I stayed on the porch swing. Lexi went into the house, saying, ‘Dinner in ten minutes.’

  When I went inside, she had set the table with a loaf of sliced bread, a box of crackers, a stick of butter, a mostly empty package of cheddar, and three apples. She picked up the last of the cheese and put it in her mouth.

  I took two slices of bread, buttered them, inserted crackers, and closed the sandwich.

  ‘Sometimes you make do with what there is,’ Lexi said.

  ‘My philosophy too,’ I said. ‘Could be worse.’

  She gave me one of the apples. ‘I’ve had worse,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I can tell.’

  ‘Why are you still here?’ she asked. ‘Mom’s paintings are gone. There’s nothing for you. You could call for another car or a taxi.’

  ‘I figure I can help,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Besides, I like it here,’ I said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Homey,’ I said.

  She laughed but asked, ‘Did you burn my mom’s studio?’

  I took another bite. At some point, I would need to start telling the truth. But I said, ‘You know better than that. I love her paintings. I was asleep in Cristofer’s room.’

  ‘Why did you really come here?’ she asked.

  I chewed and swallowed. ‘Did you know that it’s actually illegal to buy and sell bodies – even for medical purposes?’ I asked. ‘So I charge for postage and handling, which is legal. But there’s a black market. A lot of us use it. A few years ago, a guy at UCLA supposedly cut up about eight hundred cadavers with a hacksaw.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, and she carried her empty plate to the sink.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lexi

  I sat on the porch and waited for Cristofer. The moon edged into the sky. Climbing over the hill. In the yard an ember still glowed where Mom’s studio had stood. A cool breeze came. Moths bounced against the screen door. Heat lightning flashed in the sky over the ocean. Tilson walked across the yard. I called to him but he didn’t answer. I expected Edgar Allan to join me but he walked out across the yard. Following Tilson.

  At midnight I went inside and picked up the phone. The Sheriff’s Office operator said Daniel Turner was off duty. She asked if I wanted to leave a message. I said, ‘No.’ But changed my mind. ‘Tell him that Cristofer came home but left again and hasn’t returned,’ I said. ‘Tell him that the ashes are still smoking even though rain fell all afternoon. Tell him that’s not a metaphor.’ Then I changed my mind again. ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Erase all that. Tell him nothing.’ I hung up. />
  When I looked out my window the next morning, Cristofer was sleeping on the spot where Tilson had buried the dead chickens. I pulled on a dress and ran outside. The dead-bird smell seeped up through the sand. Stained the air. Cristofer was lying on the dirt. He’d spread his arms in a hug like he was in love with the earth and all that was inside it. Black flies walked on his face and hands. And churned in the air above him. His skin was covered with bites.

  I pulled him away and held him to me. ‘Where have you been?’ I asked.

  He opened his eyes. And grinned.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked again.

  His eyes turned upward.

  Clouds grayed the sky. The air was heavy and hot and smelled of rotting death and Mom’s burnt studio. No one else was up and out. Next door Lane Charles’s windows were dark. His tractor stood beside his cane field. His car was gone from his driveway. In the back acres a haze hung at the edge of the pine woods.

  ‘Where’s the driver?’ I asked.

  Cristofer stared at my forehead.

  ‘Where is Paul?’

  He looked at the sky.

  So I took him inside to the kitchen. Found a bottle of turpentine that Walter had made from resin. Poured some on a towel. Cleaned Cristofer’s broken skin.

  He howled and howled.

  ‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s what happens when you sleep with flies.’ I dabbed again. He howled again.

  Mom came to the kitchen wearing a blue nightgown. The scratches on her face had scabbed. Her hair looked more like shreds than something that belonged on a woman’s head. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  I dabbed. ‘Cristofer came home,’ I said.

  ‘You’re waking Walter,’ she said.

  ‘Jesus Mom.’ I dabbed a bite on Cristofer’s chin.

  His eyes flamed like he would hit me. I stared him down. He keened.