Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

by Clayton Lindemuth

  The old woman’s blood had dripped to the floor. Looking, Jacob found his feet were wet and he’d made tracks. He wetted a rag at the sink and wiped them out, careful to leave the widow’s blood undisturbed. Then he wiped his soles.

  He found an expended shotgun shell and left it.

  Dim lamps lit the dining room and radio room. The stairwell was brighter. He rubbed his palms to his pants.

  Lucy Mae had sheltered Jacob from Angus, but her protection had ended last winter. Survival had demanded Jacob learn deception. As he followed Angus’s footsteps, what other evidence might he find? Maybe there was advantage in all this.

  Jacob neared the top of the stairwell. He stooped with his eyes flush to the floor and looked to the hall. The room on the left was dark. He slipped toward the one spilling light at the far end. Peering around the corner he saw the bed. The air carried a tease of evacuated bowels. The widow was utterly still.

  What other clues had his father left behind? From the edge of the hallway Jacob searched the floor, the walls, the blanket. Far away, a gust whistled through the front door. Lightning flashed outside the bedroom window and the thunder boom followed a short moment later. Trembling, Jacob opened the closet. It was unoccupied. He knelt and lifted the blanket from the floor. The space was empty.

  He stood beside the body.

  Widow McClellan had never been more to him than a crinkled hag with a scratchy voice. He’d only seen her from afar, but her corrugated face, now in repose, seemed capable of suddenly scowling. A faint, shimmering light rose from her like heat. Jacob retreated, raced down the hallway, took the steps two at a time, darted from the front door… forest path… cornfield… to the farm. The truck was parked and unlit; the dogs growled from their pens and the farmhouse was dark. He crossed to the kennel, rested his hand on the corner and caught his breath. His side ached.

  Angus killed the widow.

  A burst of wind pushed him into the kennel. Lightning flashed and the glow lingered in the clouds above the lake. The wind disappeared, leaving the sizzle of raindrops falling on the lake water and tree leaves.

  “Hey Reb,” he whispered. “Hey bitch.”

  Dog tails drummed the chicken wire fence. He wiggled his fingers through the wire and Rebel nuzzled against them. The bitch in the next crate whined. The patter of rain galloped closer.

  Wind whipped his shirt and Jacob searched the blank sky. Lightning flashed and an instant report pounded land and lake; the echo rolled. Fat raindrops hit like lead pellets. Cattle bellowed and hogs grunted. Jacob jumped at a bolt of lightning and simultaneous, deafening clap; his ears rang. So close! The strike was at Devil’s Elbow! Jacob leaned into the wind and struggled toward the house. His skin tingled with electricity. The gust abated, then whipped him with redoubled fury, shoved him back two steps.

  It was like punishment.

  Emeline awoke with a dream poised in her mind, the words of the Lord booming from heaven in a deep bass rumble. He said He was about to work and she should watch. She whispered Yes Lord, and rolled, snuggling her thin blanket closer to her neck.

  A thunderclap jolted her awake.

  Emeline twisted from the sofa, braced against the armrest and stood, then followed the wall for support. Another thunderclap ricocheted through the house, rattling windows. The storm was on top of them. Wind rushed under the porch and it sounded like a bawling woman. Rain pattered tentatively on the kitchen window, small droplets that portended giants.

  The Lord had said He was about to move.

  Where, Lord? What do you want me to do? The basement?

  Lightning flashed and outside in the white burst she saw Jacob leaning into the wind and struggling toward the house.

  Jacob fought into the gale, squinted against windborne debris and rain. The dogs barked as if challenging an interloper.

  Ahead, someone was awake in the house. The kitchen light went on, then the porch light. The door opened. Emeline braced against the jamb. The wind made a black tangle of her hair and she held one arm aloft protecting her face.

  “Come inside!”

  Lightning flashed. Jacob struggled closer, bracing against a side wind that seemed intent on holding him still.

  Halfway to the house, a terrible screech issued from the barn.

  Jacob kept his eyes on Emeline and struggled closer. She clutched the screen door but the wind ripped it from her hands and it smacked the house. She fell to the porch and shouted. The wind consumed her words. She pointed to the sky as she rolled flat on the porch. She shouted again and Jacob turned and looked upward.

  The heavens were dark. In a sudden claustrophobic instant, Jacob beheld a giant slab of barn roof floating overhead with the lightness of a candy wrapper. The wind stilled and the noise abated; he stood slack-jawed as the roof descended. He ran. Slipped. The roof crashed to the earth where he stood a moment before, and the consequent wind blast hurled him to the mud again.

  “Huuuricane!”

  The voice came from the house. Angus ran down the steps in his underwear. Behind, Deet sheltered his eyes with his hand and helped Emeline to her feet.

  As suddenly as the storm arrived, it departed. The shrieking calumny faded to footsteps in squishy mud and hands wiping water from arms and naked thighs. The last drop of rain rippled in a puddle. The sky blinked away a fast-moving cloud and the moon peered at them.

  “Ripped it right off the barn! I was standing here!” Jacob pointed. “Right here, and it passed like this,” he drew an arc over his head.

  Angus stalked to the barn.

  “Get inside the house,” Deet said.

  “But I’m already here!”

  “Why are you here?”

  Jacob hesitated. “I heard the thunder!”

  “Where’d it strike?”

  “One was at Devil’s Elbow. Saw it hit.”

  Angus marched back to the boys. “Jake, see if anything’s on fire. What’d you do to your arm?”

  Jacob looked at his bloody bicep. “Musta caught a splinter in the wind.”

  “Have Em pick it out tomorrow.”

  Jacob ran to the edge of the lawn toward Devil’s Elbow. He looked back. Angus paced to the barn entrance and stared across the field to the Widow McClellan’s.

  I shove the sliding door open and flip the light switch; the roof over the shop is secure; only the corner above the right side loft is smashed in my yard. Skyward I see stars. The barn frame is intact, but cross members and roof lifted whole, leaving hay bales exposed. Each night, dew will settle. Not worth getting riled about for a night or two, but any more rain and the outside bales will rot. A good soaking will cost me.

  “Christ Almighty.”

  Deet comes alongside.

  “You got any tar paper left?” I say.

  “Half a roll. Not enough.”

  “All right. Another roll. Tomorrow I want you to cut and clean five-inch oak crossbeams. Strip the bark. I want eleven-foot poles; looks like, hell, ten of em. Then strip the paper off the roof that blowed off and see what we got to work with. I’m not gonna waste walnut. We’ll go to the mill for what we can’t salvage.”

  Deet looks at the ground.

  “One other thing. Don’t climb that roof without I’m here. I got plans for you.”

  “Plans, huh?”

  I return to the shattered mass of boards and tarpaper lying on the mud. Look from them to the barn to the sky, and wonder at the timing. The illusion of cause is strong, but a snurgle of walnut whiskey’ll get my mind right.

  Still I study the roof and how it blew Jacob to his face in the mud, and I can’t quite fathom any of it.

  The first thunder I heard was while the widow choked her last breath.

  “Lifted clean off. Just clean off.”

  Jacob stood at the fifty-foot slope above the lake. His gaze followed the dark shoreline seeking the orange flicker of flames. The air was damp and calm; wet grass tickled his legs. Fireflies had returned to the open air. Stars twinkled, and the scene was one
of planetary amnesia: the world had forgotten the storm that smashed into the Hardgrave farm. Jacob ran down the slippery trail.

  He whiffed ozone and turned to the forest. The black outline of foliage against the sky had changed. A void had opened in the leaves at the walnut tree. He moved toward the shadows; the scent became burned wood. Feeling along the tree with his hands, he inched forward until pricked by the jagged splinters of an arboreal cataclysm. The massive limb that jutted from the trunk, where he and his father before him had reclined to watch lazy ripples on the lake—had collapsed. He traced his fingertips along the still-hot streak where lightning had blasted away bark.

  Eyes open, an image of Lucy Mae’s putrefied face flashed into his field of vision.

  He retracted his fingers but the image lingered in the dark. His heart thudding, Jacob followed the fallen limb to where branches separated and he could step no farther. The scent became rotten flesh.

  Jacob ran back to the farm.

  Twenty Six Maul

  Maul progressed. Although some mavericks fought puppies to condition the dog’s minds, dogmen were in general reticent to seed immature dogs in fights. They made a poor spectacle. Ticky Bilger’s challenge was to convince an organizer to allow a thirteen-month dog in a sanctioned match. Ticky chose Charlie something or other, from Franklin, a man who’d proven moral flexibility by staging contests between other breeds and pit bulls. If another young dog awaited a match, Charlie might extend an invitation.

  Ticky would attend the next fight and plead in person. Charlie, he understood, had a weakness.

  Checking Maul one morning Ticky noticed a stray mongrel hound lingering by the yard gate. Though the clearest sign of a bitch in heat was her backside blood, the second best indication was a stray hound’s nose. Tobacca was hot.

  Ticky did a bit of elementary genetic calculus and decided to breed her with Maul. The worst result would be a couple stillborn pups, but the rest would be killers. The offspring that lived would almost be clones of Maul, Ticky figured. They’d enter training early and once their father proved game, their worth would climb.

  The stillborns would’ve just ended up bait dogs if they lived, so there wasn’t any moral consequence to breeding Maul with his mother.

  The white powder Vic left made the time pass quickly and improved Ticky’s elocution. One night at a bar telling lies with the boys, Ticky’s ebullience caused an altercation. Ticky felt his veins bulge and his eyes burn with internal pressure and Marty O’Brien backed down. The next day, after a few hours of sleep and a pot of coffee, Ticky relished the memory. He’d heard of whiskey goggles, which made ugly women pretty. Seemed that white powder made small men big. And smart men smarter.

  Ticky fed Maul a plate of liver with a half teaspoon of cocaine mashed into a slice on the side, snorted two lines, and reintroduced Maul to his mother.

  He returned three hours later and Tobacca was shredded to her rib bones and half gutted.

  “You grinnin’ at me you dumb sumbitch? You grinnin’?”

  Maul panted, his tongue draped over the side of his glazed mouth.

  Ticky stood slack jawed, beat the pen with his fists and feet. “You fuckin mutt!” Ticky kicked the chain link. “You fuckin cut-rate mutt! Bastard! Bitch! Punk! No good murdering fuckin… shit.” Ticky clutched the pen and caught his wind.

  Maul watched with peppercorn pupils.

  Pete joined Ticky at the pen. “He killed Tobacca?”

  Ticky clasped the latch. Maul watched, his grin gone. Pete knelt at the front corner.

  “Drag Tobacca out, boy.”

  “You don’ think he’ll hurt me?”

  “He knows better. Go on.”

  Ticky stood away and leaned forward to the latch mechanism. He eased the cage door open. Pete reached inside. Maul charged and in a mad explosion, knocked Pete on his back, seized his face, shook. The boy screamed as his jaw bone collapsed.

  Ticky kicked Maul’s exposed neck and groped on top of the crate for a pry stick. He fell to Maul, shoved the oak dowel between the dog’s jaws. Expediency demanded force; Pete could die any second. But too much lateral pressure could break a tooth and damage the dog’s prospects. Ticky applied gentle, sustained force until leverage overcame brute strength.

  Pete wriggled free and kicked backward.

  Ticky drove the dowel butt to Maul’s skull and shoved him into Tobacca’s pen. He slammed the gate with her corpse inside.

  Cherry blood smeared Pete’s face and neck and trickled steadily from four puncture marks. Ticky wiped it away. “You one lucky bastard.”

  Pete gurgled, “Illum, illum.” He drooled blood and coughed.

  Ticky frowned. The way Pete’s jaw moved wasn’t right.

  Ticky attended a fight at Charlie’s place in the woods by Franklin. He pulled Charlie aside while the men studied dogs in anticipation of placing bets.

  “Found me a match, yet?”

  “No one fights pups. You ought to lunge test him.”

  “He’s passed a lunge test, and I put him against the neighbor’s two year old blue nose and Maul killed him inside of two minutes. He’s ready to go.”

  “I don’t have a match.”

  “He’ll take any dog. I don’t care how old or what bloodline. Maul’s gonna whup ass, and that’s a guarantee.”

  “You say any dog?”

  “That’s right. Any age, any size.”

  “You stupid? Fourteen-month dog don’t know the tricks. Don’t have the track record. Wouldn’t be right to the boys or the sport. There’s the principle to think of.”

  “Here’s your principle. You got a string of pups for sale. Thunder comes out of retirement for one easy fight, reminds the boys of his glory days. Help them pups fetch a price. Maul’s only fourteen months. What danger’s that?”

  “He’d have to be the devil himself to whup Thunder.”

  “Sounds like we come to accord.”

  Charlie rubbed his chin.

  Twenty Seven

  I look at my pocket watch. Twenty minutes late. I pull the F-100 to the side of the dirt road, pour walnut whiskey into my thermos cup and top it with steaming coffee. The new site is around here somewhere—Merle said a mile beyond the last, but with windrows of scrub trees blocking my line of sight and my slippery morning memory, I don’t know if I should look left or right. Sipping, I start down the road and watch for tire tracks across either ditch. I hold the cup in my gear-shifting hand and swap to my steering hand with each clutch; my eye torn between the rough road and my splashing coffee.

  With the widow’s death and my barn roof on the ground, the pendulum swings back and I figure to get the hell out the way ‘fore it hits me square. I bounce over a ditch, stop alongside a fleet of trucks on a slick field. The air is wet and the ground muddy. The bastards at Oil City chose a tilled field for the next drill site. My feet stick; suction pops as I swing one leg in front of the other.

  The derrick is in pieces; the deck on a single truck, all the machinery spot-welded to the floor. The tower waits on another flatbed, and the diesel motor on a third.

  “Get your ass over here, Hardgrave!” Merle leverages a pipe wrench against a cargo strap release that’s caked in muck. “Ten minutes more, and you’d a been looking for work. We got to stand this rig.”

  I gulp the last of my coffee and screw the cup on the thermos.

  The drilling rig components was remanufactured after the last job—disassembled, repaired, and moved to the new site. Water beads on the oily cathead spool, but once I wrap the chain four times, a coat of bear grease couldn’t keep it from grabbing.

  “Thought the company was gonna spring for a new rig.”

  Merle shakes his head. “You say that every time. Nobody ever said that.”

  “Still running a four-banger truck motor. Get us a spudder, a Keystone or a Cyclops. We wouldn’t be busting our asses half a day bolting the derrick down and traipsing over to the motor to add oil to keep it from burning up. And that’s another thing.
Karl’s putting second sand crude in the crankcase. May as well lube it with chicken shit. How long’ll it run like that?”

  Merle pries the wrench against the strap lever and it gives, releases a stack of drilling pipe. He backpedals as they tumble, and stoops like he’s just outrun a bull. “That little motor’s run on second sand five years without a fart of smoke. Shut the hell up and get ready.”

  Karl’s at the head of the thirty-foot tower, and spends a second look at the cable affixed to the frame. He waves his arm upward; the crane operator engages the motor and a steel cable hoists the derrick.

  Perhaps now she could write a proper poem; perhaps the mystery of the three missing women would congeal into an appropriate verse—imagine if each wife loved him, pinned her hopes of raising a good family, and his response was to bury them beside a gnarled walnut. There was a poem in that.

  The screen door twanged open. Jacob ran to the stairs.

  “Jacob!”

  He stopped.

  “Angus said you have a splinter. Run to the closet and bring me the tweezers.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Jacob.”

  He continued upstairs, returned a few minutes later, and stood before her.

  “Let me see.” On his arm, she touched a dimple of a wound with a red center. “A splinter?” she said. “Looks too deep.”

  “Wind was somethin’ else.”

  “We best dig it out or you’ll have an infection. Let me get situated so I can see.”

  Emeline eased her legs over the couch to the floor, closed her eyes and smiled tightly as pain flared. She took his arm again and squeezed the puncture like a pimple. Blood erupted to the surface. Jacob winced.

  “Hold still.”

  “That hurt.”

  “Run upstairs and get peroxide, cotton, and Mercurochrome.”