July 7th
A Novel
Jill McCorkle
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
For my parents,
Melba Collins McCorkle
and
John W. McCorkle, Jr.,
with love
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
1
If you like action come to N.Y.C.
they got murder and rape and robbery,
they got all kinds of violence can happen to you,
they got broken glass and dog doo-doo,
a Saturday night special every night of the week.
Now this kid with the shaved head has been saying the words to this song for the past 450 miles, over and over, ever since the trucker picked him up just outside of the Holland Tunnel. He just keeps mocking Loudon Wainwright III who in that song mocks Bob Dylan who never mocked anybody that the boy can think of. That’s what he’s going to do; he’s going to not mock anybody; he’s going to write words that nobody has ever heard before; he’s going to create worlds that are worlds better than this piece of crap and he’s going to be somebody. Just as soon as he gets somewhere, he’s going to be somebody. But for the time being, he’s gonna ride, just gonna sip bourbon and ride, might ride right on down to Florida, put orange juice in the bourbon, write down all of these thoughts that lately seem to stick in his mind, thoughts like life sucks, might sing Jimmy Buffett songs; Jimmy Buffett doesn’t mock anybody, saw Jimmy Buffett one time, football stadium full of college students, cold beer, barefooted, Saturday afternoon. “Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, nothing remains quite the same.”
“Can it, kid.” The trucker has spoken. The boy had forgotten that the trucker was there, forgotten that it’s this big hairy truck drivin’ man that makes the wheels turn, makes the rubber burn. “Can’t you talk?”
The kid nods, takes a sip from his bottle. He finished off a pint around D.C., put the empty bottle in his canvas duffel bag that he has between his feet and pulled out another one. His eyes are glazed, one hand on the bottle, the other on the top of the bag. The trucker keeps thinking that this guy will pass out soon and he can put him out by the roadside somewhere. He nudges his foot under his seat to make sure that his metal box is still there, bought himself a gun during the strike, bought it mostly for weirdo hitchers in case they got smart like that bruiser a few weeks ago that was wanting to bugger. He broke that queer’s jaw and threw him out somewhere around Richmond. You just never can tell. This kid looks harmless enough, looks young, stinks like a polecat, drunk as a skunk, says “excuse me” after every hiccup, has on brand new looking Nikes, but you never know.
“How far you going?” the trucker asks. He’s asked this question for the past ten hours and has yet to get an answer.
“Don’t know.”
“Why’d you leave New York?”
“They got murder and rape and robbery…”
“Yeah, yeah, broken glass and dog doo-doo. You said all that already.” The kid just shrugs and takes another swallow. “You ain’t from New York, ain’t got a New York voice.”
“Everybody sounds the same these days.”
“So where you from?” Usually the trucker doesn’t give a damn, but there’s something about this one, something that’s made him curious.
“The world will be homogenized but never pasteurized.”
“I said where bouts you from?”
“I want to go somewhere, somewhere different, Howard Johnsons look the same, blue and orange, and McDonalds with yellow arches. It’s all the same.” His voice is slurred and now the damn kid looks like he might cry. The trucker is sorry now that he ever got him to start talking.
“I’m from North Carolina, nothing special, Howard Johnsons, Texaco station, high school; people date and get married and have children that learn how to walk and talk; everybody does things like that; everybody might have herpes one day.”
“We’re in North Carolina. Where you from?”
“A town.” The boy shrugs and rolls that shaved head to one side. “They got bars in New York that never close, got bars where people take off their clothes.”
“Got ’em everywhere, boy. Wanna stop so you can get yourself home?”
“Got ’em everywhere, damn right. Homogenized but not pasteurized.” The boy stares up ahead. He’s tired of talking to this man; he liked it better when he forgot that this man was here; this man just doesn’t understand, doesn’t know that he has all of these things to think about, things to decide, things to create, things like the way that all those letters on that glowing green sign run together to spell nothing.
“Think I’ll pull off and stretch,” the trucker says. “Might grab a cup of coffee.”
“Might grab a cup of coffee.”
“You sure could use one,” the trucker says and pulls in at an all-night convenience store right by the service road. This kid is really getting on his nerves now, the shaved head, his drunken mumblings. “Hey, you, aren’t you getting out?”
“Nah, been in these places before.”
“Come on, get out.” The trucker nudges him and the kid shakes his head back and forth. “Come on.”
“Got my bag.”
“Well hell, bring it with you.” The trucker walks around and opens the other door, stands there waiting until he slides down, the bag clanging against the floor-board. “What you got in there anyway?”
“Typewriter.” He sways for a minute and his knees start to buckle. The trucker starts to grab him but he throws up his hands. “Sam Swett walks alone,” he says and weaves behind the trucker, pulling his bag behind him. Sam Swett, most likely to succeed; he only missed getting that by a few votes, almost most likely to succeed. The bells on that door ring so loud that it jars his whole skull, and the light makes his eyes burn, makes him feel dizzy. The trucker is talking to the fat man sitting behind the counter, so he walks over and looks at what’s on the shelves. Chef Boyardee; you can go anywhere in the country and buy Chef Boyardee, and the candy bars, rows and rows of candy bars: Three Musketeers in red, white and blue the patriotic appeal, Zero in that cool blue, M&Ms. He remembers eating M&Ms: he would sit down and open the pack, segregate before eating; there were blacks, light skin blacks, Indians, Chinese and Martians; there were no white M&Ms; there was no race with orange skin; orange ones were the white people, no other choice, but then came the big decision, which race do you devour first? And he got older but there were still M&Ms, same wrapper, only difference that the Indians had become extinct, stripped from society, made children hyperactive. He would segregate them, figure the population percentages, integrate them back within the bag and pull them out one at a time, try to guess which race was melting in his hand before he popped it into his mouth. Then he was in college and his mother would send a shoebox wrapped in brown paper, filled with cookies, a check, athletic socks and M&Ms. He would open one corner of the bag and pour the contents into his mouth, homogenized. What do kids do now? There are no colors for Puerto Ricans, Cubans, India Indians, Iranians. It would be so difficult to be a child, so difficult to segregate and discern the differences, just say they’re all M&Ms, they’re all people. It’s all junk food: Fritos, Ruffles, Cheetos, Doritos, Doritos Light, Sour Cream and Onion, Sour Cream and Chives, Nacho; it’s enough to drive you fucking crazy; there are too many choices. “You have so many choices, Sammy,” his father had said, pride in his eyes, the keys to a new car in his pocket. “Used to people just had to get out and find something to do, didn’t have much choice.” It’s enough to drive you fucking crazy.
“Can I help you find something, son?�
� It is the voice of the man behind the stool.
“I can’t decide.” He shakes his head and walks back around to the counter, the top of the duffel bag clenched in his hand, the empty bottle clanging against the typewriter, his only pair of clean underwear covering the keys. “We gotta leave, going somewhere,” he mumbles and looks around. “Where is that man?”
“Were you with him?” The man looks surprised, the loose sallow skin of his cheeks glowing under the fluorescent light with a greenish tint. Give this man a green M&M. “He left about ten minutes ago.”
“Where am I?”
“Marshboro, North Carolina.” The man does not take his eyes off of him. Marshboro, N.C. He is only about two and a half hours from home, two and a half hours from central air, clean sheets. “Do you want some coffee? Anything?”
“May vomit.” He feels his stomach churn, tightness in his throat, the man’s face slowly covered in little black specks. “Bathroom.”
“Sorry, it’s private. You’ll have to leave.” The man has shifted a little now, his hand near the phone. Who does that man think he is? Some kind of derelict? He was almost most likely. He turns and goes out the door, the bells clanging over his head. He makes his way to the corner of the store and squats there in the darkness, cold sweat running through the prickles on his head, dropping like dew onto the green surgical shirt.
Charles Husky breathes a sigh of relief when the door closes and the kid disappears into the darkness. He’s used to getting the late night weirdos, but it doesn’t happen that often. Usually it’s a slow night which is why he doesn’t mind working the late shift. He’s been working here ever since the textile plant started laying people off last December. His first night of work was Christmas Eve, Merry Christmas, and Maggie and his daughter Barbara had come down there and sat with him for about an hour. Still, it’s almost peaceful here now, on this vinyl stool, the canned goods to his right, the Slurpee machine behind him softly gurgling like a baby nursing, like his little baby Barbara had done and Lordy, that’s been a long time. Barbara is thirty with a gurgling baby of her own, way off in Montana, coming home for Christmas every other year. But still, Charles likes to think about all of those things and he has plenty of time to do it during these late hours when most people are asleep, when it seems, the whole town is asleep. He found out a long time ago that things just ain’t like they are on T.V. where someone comes tapping on the door wanting a jar of Miracle Whip. It just doesn’t happen that way and if this town wasn’t right here on I-95 where truckers and travelers are passing through all night long, there wouldn’t even be any reason to stay open this shift, and then maybe he could get on in the daytime, and at this time of morning he’d be spooned up with Maggie, his arms wrapped around her plumpness in a warm bed. Whenever he thinks of Maggie, he thinks “warm” and it always sounds so good to him, as good as the first time he ever wrapped his arms around a much thinner Maggie, even though right this minute he has his oscillator fan fixed so that it won’t oscillate and will blow right on him. It is ninety degrees, only dropped six degrees since afternoon. Maggie’s tomato plants growing along the back fence ain’t ever gonna make it through this and she works with those plants, digging and replanting, fertilizing and watering, and all because he likes fresh tomatoes with his eggs when he gets home at seven.
Not many people even stop; oh maybe every now and then they do but it’s only for a thirty cent cup of coffee like that trucker. Charles Husky doesn’t blame them. Why would they stop for a cellophaned sandwich that you stick in a toaster when they can ride on down the road and find an all-night diner? No, the only regular during this shift is Harold Weeks, been coming in every single night since he left home a couple of months ago. Right now, Harold Weeks is in that back room, either guzzling coffee or stretched out on that cot sleeping it off. Harold never should have left Juanita over that one mistake she made; he was lucky that she ever married him in the first place, him being thirteen years older and all, and Juanita’s a real looker, too, got her own business, gave Harold two fine children and what does he do but up and leave her the first time she makes a mistake. Somebody needs to tell Harold a thing or two, tell him about forgiving and forgetting, but Charles Husky isn’t the man to do it. Charles just ain’t the kind to get all tied up in somebody’s business. Besides, Charles likes having Harold around late at night, not to talk to, of course, but just so he’s not alone. Ain’t no way that you can talk to Harold Weeks when he’s had too much to drink. He has a filthy-sounding mouth when he’s sober.
This real nice song called “Tight Fittin’ Jeans” is playing on the radio when two headlights appear almost out of nowhere and a big Chrysler New Yorker screeches to a stop. Boy, Conway Twitty can sing, all right, there’s a tiger in these tight fittin’ jeans. Charles reaches down and begins wiping off the counter where he and Harold had had one of those cellophaned sandwiches with tomato slices just a little while ago. These two young boys get out of that car and start walking up. Charles never has gotten used to seeing young high school kids driving around in big fine cars. The bells ring and this skinny one with sun bleached hair comes in first, followed by a larger one with a bad case of acne. Little Barbara never had a car to drive around in except Maggie’s old Rambler but she never had face or teeth problems, saved them a fortune he’s sure.
“Hi boys,” Charles says and smiles. “What can I do for you?”
“Keep your shirt on, man, we’ll see,” the skinny one says and goes over to the drink cooler. That kid’s eyes look funny, red and glassy, ought to be at home and in bed. His Mama is probably worried sick right now. The larger one just stands near the door, his hands deep in the pockets of his Levis, and stares down at the paperback book collection there in front of the counter. That’s such an embarrassment to Charles. He hated that Christmas Eve when Maggie and Barbara came in and saw all those books. Harold Weeks calls them “beaver books.” Harold sometimes reads one while he’s sobering up. The skinny one has his head in the cooler now and is fumbling around.
“Hey, Ronnie,” he yells to the larger boy who is now flipping through one of the books. “They ain’t got shit here, all the beer’s hot.”
“Son, it’s after one. I can’t sell you any beer anyway.” Charles looks up. He had been distracted by this other song he really likes, “Swinging.” The boy whirls around and glares at him. “I’m sorry as I can be but that’s the law, thought you were going after a soda.”
“A soda? Do I look like I want a soda?”
“I’m sorry.” Charles says and watches that kid pace back and forth. Kid probably isn’t even old enough to buy beer, about seventeen, probably. Her Mama was in the kitchen cuttin’ chicken up to fry, her Daddy was in the back yard winding up the garden hose and I’m out on the front porch feeling love down to my toes and we were swanging, justa swanging.
“Yeah, well what are you gonna do about it, old man?”
“Hey man.” The big one tosses down the book and steps closer to the door. “Just buy the rolling papers and let’s leave.”
“Hell no!” The skinny one goes back to the cooler, gets a Michelob and opens it, the most expensive kind they sell and that kid just gets one and opens it. Charles reaches for the phone. He doesn’t want any trouble, especially with a child who ain’t got sense enough to go on home. “Hey, I’m just teasing, old man, I’ll pay you for this one.” He steps closer, picks up a loaf of bread, wanders down another aisle and gets a box of Saran Wrap. This kid is worse than that other one that was in here. “Pack of Marlboros, and some rolling papers.”
Charles gets the papers and the cigarettes and rings it all up. He doesn’t even ring up the beer, just stretches his hand out for the money. He watches the boys walk out and just stand there in front of the store. An old one, I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden. That fool kid stands right out there and dumps that whole loaf of bread on the sidewalk. There’s got to be a little rain sometime. He comes back in, stretching the bag, twisting it around, and
the big one follows him, his eyes still on those “beaver books.” The next thing Charles knows, that big one has jumped over the counter and is holding both of his hands behind his back, even before Charles could ask why that kid had dumped out the bread, and that big one had seemed like a nice boy. He is being robbed. His hands are being wrapped and knotted up in that plastic bread bag. This kid is strong as hell, too. “Harold,” he says, but he can’t seem to speak loud enough. The skinny one turns up the radio. Better look before you leap and don’t be sorry, love shouldn’t be so melancholy. “Harold. Come on kids, cut it out. I’ll give you some beer.”
“Shut the hell up,” the skinny one says and crams all the napkins that are beside the coffee maker into Charles’ mouth. He picks up the Saran Wrap and starts wrapping it around Charles’ face, round and round, pulling it tightly. He can’t talk; his vision is blurred, the creases in the plastic buckling around his eyes. He can barely hear the radio, barely hear the big one. “Hey, don’t do that, come on, just get the cash and whatever you want and let’s get the hell out.” These kids probably have big allowances. Why the hell are they doing this?
“Ah, he can get loose. That plastic will pull right apart.” The big one pushes Charles to the floor, that cool tile floor, sandwich crumbs, God, he can’t breathe. Where’s Harold? He barely hears the cash register open, barely hears something about trying nigger wine, barely hears the gurgling of the Slurpee machine. He is gasping, face down, the specks on the tile floor jumping and leaping toward his face. He doesn’t have the strength to move his wrists. How many nights has he stared at these specks of color in the tiles? He would trace the specks into patterns and shapes just like Maggie always did with clouds. There’s a rabbit pattern beneath the stool, a sea gull in front of the Slurpee machine. Now he sees black spots mingling with the specks, the plastic creases over his eyes. The gurgling is getting further and further away. He thinks of Maggie, spooning with Maggie in that warm bed, he thinks swinging, justa swinging, the gurgling gurgle of the Slurpee machine, gurgle, the sea gull in the tile, that damp cool sea gull, gurgle, just like little Barbara all those years ago, gurgle, swinging, gurgle, justa swinging. And here’s one you’ll all remember, Buck Owens up there in the Big Apple when he did Carnegie Hall, I got a hung’rin’ for your love and I’m waiting at your welfare line. A cellophaned sandwich ruffles under the breeze of the fan; the receipt that was just rung up is caught and held for a second like a leaf in the wind and then settles as easily as a feather to that cool tile floor.
July 7th Page 1
