Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

by Clayton Lindemuth

  Too many fucking words.

  “Their salvation,” she says. “And even your own. You’ve done evil in this lifetime, Angus Hardgrave; I’d have to be blind not to see and a liar not to confess it. But it isn’t too late to get right with the Lord. If not for yourself, think of your sons. They don’t know any better but to look up to you. What kind of role model do you make?”

  I don’t know what makes her bones so straight and uppity. Pride or something. But I got to admit I’m confused a moment by her tactics and I’d ruther she was crying off in the corner somewhere.

  Rebel growls. He stands with his forepaws on the plywood ledge and his head angles at the barn wall. Car wheels crunch rocks outside. I move to the bay entrance.

  “We’re not done talking yet,” Emeline says.

  The driver kills the engine. It knocks. The man gets out, slams the door and crosses in front of the car toward the house. He wears a short-sleeve business shirt and a tie. He raps the front door, waits three seconds and raps again. I reach in the driver’s side of the truck cab and pull a bottle of whiskey. Gurgle from the bottle and tramp down the gravel slope. Emeline trails.

  “What you want?” I call.

  The man starts, straightens his tie and bustles down the steps. Patches of scalp shine through his gray hair and he scoots like a dog with short legs.

  “Ah, Mister Hardgrave. Fred Cayer,” he says, and offers his hand. “I understand you got married.”

  “What do you want?”

  Fred drops his hand. “I had a lovely visit with your neighbor, Missus McClellan. She insisted I stop by—said you need to come by and fix her cabinets.”

  “You come here for that?”

  “No, Mister Hardgrave. No, Angus, I came by because you are a newly married man, again, and I know you’ll be interested in buying a life insurance policy to protect your wife for that terrible, unexpected day—we all know it’s coming, but we don’t know when. Friend,” he tucks a business card in my shirt pocket, “I have the authority, vested in me by the chairman of Eastern and Northern Life, Walter Reynolds Whittaker the Third, Juris Doctor, to insure you this very moment. You look forty, that right? Good health?” He flips a numbers book open, tabs through the pages, and gazes at the sky while he computes. “You’ll be insured for five hundred dollars upon receipt of a dime—a dime! Five hundred dollars for the pretty lady if you drop dead today, this minute, guaranteed; I swear on the Bible.”

  “You shouldn’t do that,” Emeline says, behind him. “Swear on the Bible.”

  “Yes Ma’am.” He waves his arm at Emeline. “Angus? Friend, how’ll she get by without you?”

  I swat a deerfly. “She’ll marry someone else.”

  “That’s not true. She’ll grieve! Where’ll she find the money for the funeral, the casket? And after that, food and bills? Mouths to feed.” Fred pulls a deck of smokes from his shirt pocket. He lights one, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Eastern and Northern is a hundred years old—and we’re a mutual company, by the way, so while your money grows in the policy, it earns dividends like a savings account at the bank.”

  “I don’t need insurance.”

  “Ah! You’ve taken precautions. Great! Have you protected yourself in case something happens to her? Women die as much as men. Sometimes, more. Man like you—she’ll be in a family way soon, if she ain’t already, and childbirth has its hazards; what do you say? Just a dime a week for seven hundred fifty dollars. Guaranteed. I can take her application right now.”

  “Covered today?”

  “Conditionally. The home office reviews the application. I’ll bring the policy the next time I come by. I collect premium two weeks at once; it cuts my windshield time, see?”

  I nod at the paper. “Fill it out.”

  “That’s right. I tell my customers, ‘you never know.’ And this will pay no matter how she passes. God forbid, of course.” Fred rests the form on the hood of his car, asks Emeline’s birth date, completes the rest without another question. He checks a few blocks and marks an X at the bottom. “Sign here, Missus Hardgrave.”

  “Do I really need life insurance, Angus?”

  “Oh—it’s not for you, Sweetie,” Fred says, placing his hand at his heart, cigarette smoke crawling from his mouth. “We buy life insurance for the people we love.”

  “What about you? How much life insurance do you have?” she asks me.

  “Just sign that so Fred can be on his way with his ass intact.”

  “I’ll need the first two-weeks’ premium…”

  “You’ll get it when you bring the policy.”

  “I—well. Hm. I can do that—but only for special customers. If I’m sure you won’t leave me hanging.”

  “Do or don’t. Our business is done.”

  “Just sign here, Ma’am.”

  “Angus, I don’t want to. Not yet.”

  I take the pen from Fred’s hand and scribble on the form. “There. Get along.”

  “I’ll drop by one evening, couple weeks out, and collect—but I’ll need a whole month’s premium. Now, shouldn’t we talk about more coverage for you?”

  “If you want to pick your face off that barn wall.”

  Fred grins, puzzled. I fill my lip with a wad of tobacco and Emeline follows me back to the barn. She watches the insurance man climb in his car and drive the loop toward the road.

  “Look after Reb’s leg,” I say. “I got maybe two more loads. You see Deet before I leave, send him along.”

  She opens her mouth.

  “We’re not talking about the lord anymore.”

  She closes her mouth then opens it again. “There’s a ladies’ bicycle on the porch. Could you bring that back? I’d like to pedal to the neighbors’ for a proper ‘hello.’”

  Fourteen

  I check my pocket watch and look over Margulies’ mostly-empty barn. This final trip will finish by mid-afternoon, and I’ll worry on that white Farmall later. I sate my empty stomach with a gulp of whiskey. “Let’s get the drill press.”

  “You want to grab this lumber today?” Deet chins toward the rafters. “If that Farmall starts, we can throw them on the trailer out back.”

  “If its tires wasn’t flat.”

  We carry the drill press to the truck and place it laterally on the bed, load a homemade lathe, then a horizontal belt sander. We fill gaps with hand saws, drill bits, squares, levels, a plumb, screw drivers, a five gallon drum of shellac flakes just waiting for the alcohol to make em useful, boxes of screws and nails, files, and pipe clamps. At the front porch, I wheel Emeline’s bike to the truck and hoist it on top of the other cargo.

  Deet says, “Where’s that whiskey?”

  “Up front.”

  “Think I’ll take a pull.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Deet wriggles onto the tailgate and uncaps the bottle. “You know the Loomis boys make hooch? They sell it at the hook shops.”

  “You go to them hook shops?”

  “I don’t believe I’ll ever pay for a woman.”

  “You will. One way or another.”

  “Almanac says this year’ll be a bumper; maybe stillin’s worth a try.”

  “Stillin’,” I say. “Mitch McClellan made some of the meanest corn whiskey you ever tasted. He give me a nip before I went off to war. Take the rust off a nail. Boiler’s in the woods, even yet. After the last revenuer took an axe to it, Mitch just quit. Musta had a basement full of it.”

  “Yeah, well, corn’s shoulder-high. We got maybe two months to get it all together.”

  “Something to think on,” I say.

  “Think on? There’s no way it don’t make sense.”

  “Well, there’s one way. You ain’t old enough to consider the cussed government. You put the money in, make something worthwhile, and they’ll come along with axes and shotguns blasting the whole works, and haul you off to jail ‘til you pay a ransom. The only way to do it is if you know they won’t catch you, and I haven’t figured that one out yet.�
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  “How long’s it been since McClellan run his still?”

  “Couple years.”

  “You don’t think they forgot, yet?”

  “Something to think on. Let’s see if Emeline kept this Farmall the way she kept the table saw.”

  In the back corner of the barn bay, a Farmall sits on flat tires with old, parched rubber. I blow dust off the engine block, wipe a swath with my hand, revealing shiny white paint.

  “‘47 A model,” I say. “Seven hundred dollars, brand new.”

  “Why’s it white?”

  “Who gives a shit? Look at that—Super model. Emeline’s Pap used to deal them.”

  “Think she’ll run?”

  “Farmalls run. Might take a little sweet talk, but she’ll run.” I climb aboard. “Padding on the seat.” I tap the tank and listen to the wavering echo of fuel. “Little low, and probly stale. Didn’t I see a fuel pump on the side of the barn?”

  “Think so. You run one of these before?” Deet says.

  I press the clutch, wiggle the shifter, extend the throttle full out and then in. I press the starter. Nothing. “Get the cables out the truck.”

  Deet glances over his shoulder. “They won’t reach. Why’d Margulies park it in the back, anyway?”

  I look at the hay bales stacked across the bay. “Turn the truck around and pull in, just shy of the wall, there.”

  Deet goes to the truck and I push the tractor. The flat tires hold like cement; I sit on a front wheel. Deet eases the truck forward and kills the motor. He stares outside. Visible in the aperture between the truck fender and barn door, a red and white car rolls to a stop. I step to the door. A young man approaches and regards me coolly.

  It’s the fella from the back of the church.

  “Brad Chambers.” He offers his hand. “You own this place?”

  “That’s right.”

  Chambers stands two feet away, still offering his hand. I give it a quick snap.

  “Well, uh, what’s your name?” Chambers says.

  “Hardgrave. I already got life insurance.”

  Chambers laughs. “I’m looking for a room. Pastor’s wife said this place was empty, and I pulled in when I saw you.”

  “What you have in mind?”

  “I can look after the place and pay twenty dollars a month.”

  “‘D’ruther it sit empty. Normal rents is four times that.”

  “I can be handy.”

  I pull Copenhagen from my pocket. “Lend us a hand in the barn.”

  Chambers follows. “What’s that? ‘47 A model. Still white?”

  “Don’t know the history,” I say. “Wife’s daddy dealt in Farmall.”

  “That French fella?”

  “Margulies.”

  “That’s right, and Pitlake bought him out in ‘49,” Chambers says. “Margulies must’ve slipped one of the show models home.”

  “Why?”

  “Dealers are supposed to paint them red before they sell them.”

  “Get back of the left wheel and give a push,” I say.

  Chambers takes one tire, Deet the other. I say, “Heave!”

  The tractor rocks forward, but the giant rear tires have settled to the rims. We relax. The tractor rocks back.

  “Another two of us could move it,” Chambers says.

  I reach to the engine, touch a black hose then a wire fastened to the head, as if examining the engine might conjure from the wary tractor a secret that will help me move it. “Deet, didn’t you carry a block and tackle to the truck?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Get it.”

  “Why not just get an air compressor?” Chambers says. “What farm doesn’t have a compressor?”

  “Deet, scout about and see.”

  On the far side of the barn bay, hay bales rise in a corner pyramid. Maple and walnut boards stretch across the loft; their ends protrude over the edge. All that remains in the bay is the tractor, a twelve-foot workbench, and a broom in the back corner. Deet trots down the steps to the lower level.

  “Where you work?” I say.

  “London Cleaners. Running uniforms, pressing suits.”

  I release a slow string of tobacco spit to the barn floor.

  “Might go to college somewhere, use my G.I. Bill.” Chambers studies a distant spot on the wall. “Somewhere.”

  “Korea?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You poor bastards hit some shit.”

  “Some. Commander was a crazy wop named Calavano, wanted to make up for missing Hitler. First Sergeant Knudsen didn’t have the rocks to put him straight. Marched a platoon like a bunch of stupid Redcoats straight into a hillside with more fucking Chinks than we had bullets.”

  “Can do, sir.” I salute. “Yes sir.”

  “Anyway, Calavano worshipped Patton, told a story about him and MacArthur in the First World War, standing on top of a hill as artillery came in all around. He thought that was just boss. Calavano lost his marbles. Said Eisenhower had Patton killed. But after what I saw, men with their bellies hanging out, legs laying fifteen feet away, still shaking, I wouldn’t put it past one man to kill another to steal what’s his, you know? After what I saw.”

  We are quiet.

  Footsteps pound the stairs. Deet appears in the doorway. “Found a compressor. I’ll roll it around.”

  “Fairlane sounds like it has some blasting powder under the hood.”

  “She’s a hottie.”

  “Let me take a peek.”

  I carry the Wild Turkey to the car. “Lookit that. Fairlane Crown Victoria.” I sip from the bottle and pass it to Chambers.

  “I guess it’s after noon,” he says and drinks. Chambers reaches in the driver’s window and pops the release.

  I feel along the bottom for the latch, lift and prop the polished hood. “I was afraid you’d have a straight six in here.”

  “Nah; bent eight. Two hundred seventy two cubic inch—runs like a cat on fire, and that’s for damn sure.”

  “Start her up. Give her a goose.”

  Chambers slides into the seat. The engine turns and a moment later, races. I lean forward, mindful of the fan blowing my hair, and nod at the throaty rumble. Chambers joins me. “Took all my Army money to buy it.”

  “Sounds purty.” I sit on his perfect wax job.

  “What do you say to the room?”

  Deet tows a black and white compressor around the barn corner. Chambers kills the motor and we mosey back to the barn.

  Working together we fill the tires, replace the oil, flush the fuel filter, and fill the tank with several trips to the pump outside with a five-gallon can. Chambers pulls the battery caps and tops each hole with water from a basin on the first floor, then readies the jumper cables.

  “Let’s push it forward,” I say.

  The tractor rolls easily. Chambers connects the cables between truck and tractor. I wave him to the seat. Chambers works the clutch, shifts the throttle to the left, then the right, then back a quarter distance to the left. He exhales.

  “You got her.” I nod. “Give her a little choke, blip that lever for a revolution—then ease off. Just get the gas flowing.”

  “What do you say to that room in the house?”

  Chambers waits, and when I say nothing, moves the choke and presses the starter. The motor grinds with a great rhythmic heavy whoop, and dies.

  “Let her charge a few minutes,” I call. “Meantime, Deet, take an extension cord and fill the tires on the trailer. Check it out good.”

  Chambers edges forward. “What do you say to the room, Mister Hardgrave?”

  “Make it thirty a month, so I don’t feel like I’m getting took.”

  “All I got is twenty.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll expect you to look after the place. There’s a push mower in the shed by the house, rakes and such. Twenty’s it?”

  “Twenty.”

  “This is just ‘til I decide what to do with the house. Could be a few
months, could be a week. I’ll be taking things out, but you can move when I see the first rent.”

  Chambers opens his wallet and hands me a ten-dollar bill. “I’ll have the rest end of the month. Two weeks.”

  “That’ll work.”

  Fifteen Maul

  At dusk Ticky Bilger rewarded Maul with a fresh-butchered cow’s heart and watched the blood on his snout glisten.

  A car door slammed and Ticky crossed to the gate. His brother Vic leaned against the fender and held a bottle.

  “Hey ya old man how ya doin? I’m headed for New York and stopped to say a big hello…”

  Ticky slapped his brother on the arm and led him into the enclosed back yard. “Doin’ fine, doin’ fine—How’s life in the big city?”

  “Lights and ladies.”

  “Business?”

  “Real good. Passin’ through to New York.”

  “What line of hustle you in, these days?”

  “Little this, you know. Whole lotta that.” Vic drank and passed the bottle to Ticky. “Progress with the dogs?”

  “Got the meanest sumbitch in the state right here. Flat licked a dog holdin’ eight pounds and a year on him.” Ticky led Vic to the pens and sipped from the bottle. “In seventy seconds. This is him.”

  “They got poodles in Chicago’d spank this pup.” Vic peered close to the pen. Maul growled.

  “You let him mouth off at people?”

  “I don’t give a shit about people; he’s a dog killer.”

  Maul leaped at the cage. Vic jumped, then rapped the mesh with his palm. “Dumb fuck.”

  “You shoulda seen him.”

  “I bet. Say, I ain’t eat all day.”

  Ticky led Vic to the house. Vic paused on the porch, pressed a nostril and blew snot to the bushes.

  “How’d we both have the same momma and you didn’t get no bringin’ up?”

  “Oh, I got it; just ditched it in Chicago. If you ever left Pennsylvania, you would too. Do you lotta good.”

  “You didn’t use to go around honkin’ all the time. How you went from bookworm know-it-all to a slick-talking huckster, I don’t know.”

  Vic opened the refrigerator and drank milk from the jar.

  Ticky shook his head. “That gonna sit on whiskey?”

  “Christ, I don’t care.” He found a block of cheese and sat at the table. “Got any bread?”