Handling Sin

by Malone, Michael

  Undoubtedly she was a cheerleader for the Thermopylae High basketball team, named the Tomahawks by a long-dead coach under the erroneous assumption that the ancient Thermopyleans had been a tribe of American Indians.

  “Caroline!” Hayes tapped one of the little blue earphones on her head.

  She screamed, “Ew, Daddy, you toedully terrified me, like rilly! You’re not supposed to be here!”

  “Obviously. Were you just smoking a cigarette?”

  “No, sir.” She lied with astonishing candor, and would probably someday get off scot-free in a murder trial. Her father crushed out the smoldering butt in the grass beside her, and moved it back and forth in front of her sunglasses. She pouted, “Oh, you always blame everything on me. Like everything!” Since babyhood, Caroline had inevitably become overwhelmed with self-pity when caught red-handed.

  In Hayes’s peripheral vision, the blue jeans wriggled. “Exactly who is that in our driveway?”

  “Holly.”

  “Yes, I realize it’s Holly. Who else is it?”

  On one knee, Caroline began solemnly to shake the pompoms from side to side as if landing a plane approaching from somewhere above and behind her father. “Oh, him. Booger.”

  “Booger?”

  From across the lawn came, “Yeah? Oh, hi there, Mr. Hayes.”

  Raleigh turned toward the male voice. By God, the brazen hood appeared to have absolutely no recollection of their encounter on First Street. Uncoiled now to a height of approximately six and a half feet, he was grinning affably.

  “Hi ya, Dad, lose your job?” called his only other child, Holly, waving a wrench. There appeared to be a beer can at her feet. Was this the life they really lived while he was away? Hayes suddenly noticed that Aura’s station wagon was not in the drive.

  “GooooooOOOOO, THERMOPYLAE!”

  “Caroline! Where’s your mother?”

  Caroline arched her shoulders, leaving them raised until Raleigh turned to stride into the house.

  At least all the furniture was still there. The cobbler’s bench coffee table. The cabbage-rose-skirted couch. The untuned spinet that nobody but Mingo Sheffield ever played. From room to room, calling “Aura?” Hayes trotted over the light-green wall-to-wall carpeting, and received an ugly electric shock from accumulated static when turning the metal doorknob to the downstairs bathroom, where the sink was smeared with large black handmarks and the toilet seat had been left up. Back in the kitchen he smelled a horrible odor and snatched a pan of burning spaghetti sauce off the stove. Stuck with a bobby pin through the straw shade of the swag light was a note on the back of a perfectly good bank deposit slip. “Gone to belly dance class after M.F.P. Stir sauce.” Below was the noseless smiling becurled cartoon face Aura had for some reason always used as a familial signature though it bore not the slightest resemblance to her. Perhaps it was to be taken as a sign of the covenant of her continued goodwill toward the family, despite her increasingly frequent absences, hitherto charitable or civic, now presumably in pursuit of a career in belly dancing.

  Below the light on the butcher block counter sat a cassette tape. “Okay,” said Raleigh as he turned it over and over in both hands. Outside, a motor roared, stopped, roared, stopped. “All right!” shouted the boy named Booger. “Ex!” Holly shouted in reply. “Hey, Car, want a ride?”

  “With you greasers? I’m shurr!” (Caroline)

  “Kiss my tuna!” (Holly)

  “Go bag your face, zods!” (Caroline)

  They were as verbally berserk as Jimmy Clay, with whom perhaps

  the mysterious Aura had long ago betrayed her marriage vows. Hayes heard the hideous falsetto horn as the Triumph screeched out of his driveway, carrying away his child. The front door slammed. The house shuddered as someone clumped upstairs and hurled shut another door. Raleigh followed, knocked at Caroline’s stickerplastered door, interpreted the sound “Yo” to mean “Come in,” and did so, clawing his way through the wind chimes that hung everywhere from the ceiling, and stepping over diet soda cans, wet towels, and mounds of clothes heaped like flashy October leaves in the yard.

  “Don’t say anything about my room, ’cause, okay, rilly?” insisted Caroline who lay on an unmade bed among what looked like a mass of small massacred animals, but were actually the dilapidated stuffed bears, rabbits, dogs, cats, pigs, and seals of her childhood. Caroline possessed everything she’d ever owned, and had as a consequence very little living space left to her. Beside her stereo she kept a crib jammed with limbless dolls. The bookcase leaned threateningly forward with the weight of coloring books. She had a poster of Mickey Mouse beside a poster of a guitar-wielding, nearly naked young black man wearing ruffles and mascara. She had broken crayons jumbled together in baskets with more cosmetics than she could possibly use in a lifetime even if she joined the circus.

  Hayes picked up from her bed the Walkman cassette player now detached from her waist. “May I borrow this thing for a moment?”

  Surprised into letting deflate the globe of pink gum that obscured her face, Caroline said, “Shurr. You like Sting?”

  “Who?”

  “Yeah, I heard of them.”

  “Caroline, just tell me when your mother will be back.”

  “How should I know?”

  “Well, do you happen to know what M.F.P. means?”

  She wrinkled her nose, and crossed her eyes trying to look at it. “Oh, Daddy! You know. Mothers for Peace.”

  “Ah, of course.” Hayes bit down on his lower lip. “Please clean up this room before I come in here with a blowtorch and do it myself.”

  “Jeez, you ever hear of child abuse?” From Caroline’s rosy mouth blew a pink cartoon balloon that popped as Hayes highstepped out of the debris, kicking off the cord of a blow dryer.

  Down in what was with naïve nostalgia called the family room, in his button-tufted Naugahyde recliner rocker, Raleigh Hayes took off his tie, toyed with the notion of hanging himself, placed the strange little foam knobs on his ears, ejected a tape labeled Sting, inserted his own, and punched Play. He heard nothing for five minutes but an actually rather soothing hum. Turning the tape to side B, finally he was listening to his father’s voice. Naturally, Earley Hayes was laughing, in that loose-throated way he had. Then he spoke. “Well, now, anyhow. Don’t take this hard. I know you love me, even if you don’t think so, and you know I love you, Raleigh. You’re my son, and you’re a good man, but time to time you get your ass screwed on backwards.”

  Hitting Stop hard, Hayes rewound the tape. The voice began again, a soft reedy drawl, sounding on the recording somehow frailer, if no less exasperatingly merry or offensively profane. “Raleigh? Raleigh? This is a test, one, two, three, and ah one. Just a second, I want to see how this gizmo works.” Clicks and thunks followed. “Okeedoke. Christ sakes, I sure don’t sound like Earley Hayes to me. Sound like Gabby Hayes, don’t I?” Laughter. “Now. Hello, Raleigh. I’m at the counter here at the Sound Center buying this doohickey, and by fuck if I didn’t just look out the window and see you flying through the door of the Lotus House and go staggering off down the sidewalk loop-legged, like you thought you were trying to walk across one of those waterbeds!” Laughter, as jolts shot through Raleigh’s arms and legs. He could have nabbed his father hours ago, if he’d only known! The Sound Center? He’d never noticed a store called the Sound Center.

  “Don’t believe I ever saw you lit up that way before. Illuminated!” Laughter. “Well, now, if I know you, Raleigh, you’ve already been to that crappy hospital. The thing is, some teenager referring to himself as a heart specialist popped into my room and stuck his foot in my trashcan and pulled over my breakfast tray. Okay, Lord, I said, a word to the wise, so I left. My apologies to you and Vicky Anna, but I couldn’t take the risk of staying.

  “And I bet you’ve run over to the bank and gotten yourself in a state talking to musclehead Ned Ware and you’re driving yourself crazy now about where is the senile old fuck and how can I grab him quick and maybe sl
ip him into some peaceful nut hatch where that little pizzle Jimmy Clay can’t come sell him any more of his old Cadillacs. Am I right?” Laughter, as Raleigh dug his fingernails into the rubbery Naugahyde. The outrageous injustice of the man!

  “Now listen to me, Little Fellow. I’ll keep this short.” “I bet,” mumbled his son. Little Fellow! Scarcely still an appropriate salutation when the father was half a foot shorter than the son.

  “I would have called, but I didn’t want you getting your ballocks in a twist arguing with me, because I don’t have the time. I’ve got some loose ends I need to get knitted up.”

  “Loose screws,” mumbled Raleigh.

  “I know how worried you are, son, but I don’t need my heart tested. I’ve always had a just fine heart.” Laughter. “Could be my damn brain needed a little work.” Raleigh nodded vigorously. “Howsoever, Specs, the ticker and I are about to kiss and part.”

  What was that supposed to mean? The muscles of Raleigh’s own heart jumped. He would sue that crappy hospital for every dime they had!

  “So I want to settle some affairs, and I need your help.” There was a long pause. Was that it? Hayes turned the sound up, pressed the plugs tighter in his ears. Then he heard a twangy young voice saying, “Yes, sir, and this model’s $189.95 plus tax. So altogether that makes, hold on, $334.76. Cash?” My God, what was his father buying now?

  “Why thank you, sweetheart…Excuse me, I’m back, Raleigh. Now, listen, if you don’t want to help, ’course that’s all up to you, but you’re gonna have to take the chance of my blowing out the old wazoo every nickel of all this loot of mine you’re planning on adding to that stash of yours.” Insufferable laughter. “But if you do help, and, naturally, you’ve got to piss and vinegar succeed, too, you’ll inherit every blessed thing I’ve got. And by nature of an inducement, I’ll tell you a secret, Specs. You don’t even know the half of what I own. You don’t know the tenth! I’m a rich man, and when I say so, I’m not yanking your wank!” Sophomoric chuckle. Hayes could just see his father, standing merrily at the Sound Center counter (in plaid pajamas and Aunt Reba’s raincoat?); his father, seventy years old, whitehaired, with the round pink cheeks, round blue eyes, and filthy vocabulary of a twelve-year-old. “You do what I say, and I’ll tell where that loot is. Deal?” The tape whirred on. “So here it is. First thing I want you to do is…I’m not going to tell you everything all at once ’cause I don’t want you to get discouraged…”

  Hayes swayed; he realized he hadn’t been breathing.

  “Is, locate Jubal Rogers for me. Give him five thousand dollars and ask him to come with you to New Orleans.

  “Second thing is, find that fuck-up of ours, your brother Gates, and bring him too.

  “Third thing is, bring me Grandma Tiny’s trunk, and the family Bible. Find out for me if you would, son, who Goodrich Hale Hayes’s wife was and see if she’s got any descendants besides Hayeses. That’s the kind of thing Vicky may know. Oh, don’t tell Vicky you’re looking for Jubal. And, Raleigh, buy me that little cabin up on Knoll Pond from Pierce Jimson. That’s where I want you to bury me. Don’t tell Pierce that, the pompous tight-ass. Also while you’re at it, I want you to steal me that crappy little bust of PeeWee Jimson his wife stuck up in the library, and bring it along. Bring my trumpet.

  “And bring a gun.

  “Talk to you soon. Well, now, anyhow. Don’t take this hard. I know you love me, even if you don’t think so, and you know I love you, Raleigh. You’re my son, and you’re a good man, but time to time you get your ass screwed on backwards. I want you to enjoy yourself for once, Specs. I want you to think of this as a holy adventure, by God. And if that doesn’t do it, just remember how rich you’re going to be, believe it or not. Over and out, roger. Isn’t this thing fun?”

  In the television screen beside the chair, Raleigh Hayes saw the face of a dead test pilot, eyes glazed, mouth fallen open, headphones askew. It was himself.

  “It’s a joke,” he whispered. “It’s okay. It’s just one of his stupid jokes, like when he claimed he’d come over here last Halloween in a hobo mask and I didn’t even recognize him and gave him an Almond Joy. It’s a joke.”

  Someone was leaning on the front door bell. From Caroline’s room, Hayes heard howls; her stereo, he hoped. He hurried through the house, his brain furious: you can’t just bury somebody anywhere you feel like it. Steal from a public library?

  “Yes?” On the step was a black teenager holding a brown paper bag.

  “Hey, man, why don’t y’all answer your door?”

  “Why don’t you keep a civil tongue in your head?” snapped Hayes.

  “Racist turkey.” The young man shoved the bag at Hayes, and loped across the lawn to a van, which he drove away as Raleigh was calling, “Come back here, you’ve got the wrong house!”

  In the bag was a bottle of whiskey and an envelope. In the envelope was ten thousand dollars in cash, clipped to a note. “I bet you thought I was joking. Five for Jubal, five for the cabin. Here, have another drink. Then you and that damn beautiful Aura run upstairs and grab a nice warm daytime fuck. Then you better get along. You’ve got a lot of work to do. I forgot to say, unless you hear from me, meet me, noon, the 31st, St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, ole New Oreleens. Bring it all and I’ll come on home. Love and hugs, Daddy.”

  Hayes shut the door, locked it and leaned on it. For God’s sake! His father had entrusted a bagful of hundred-dollar bills to a black delivery boy! He should have the man committed! And besides, Pierce Jimson was never going to sell him that rotted cabin, for any price. All the Jimsons hated all the Hayeses. And where in hell was he supposed to find his half-brother Gates, who was doubtless either dead or back in jail, and had last been heard of five years ago when he’d sent a postcard from Winnemucca, Nevada, asking for a loan. A postcard of a motel flashing neon slot machines on its roof! And this “Jubal Rogers,” Raleigh didn’t know from Adam. Maybe he was related to Flonnie Rogers, the old black cleaning woman who’d lived at his grandmother’s house for half a century, and must by now be long dead. Trunk? How should he know where Granny Tiny’s trunk was? Why was there a big “PEACE NOW” poster on a stick in the umbrella stand? Maybe he should picket the house with it. Steal PeeWee’s bust? And the suggestion about Aura, that they should…! Age, far from purifying his father’s nature, had distilled it into a reservoir of juvenile lewdness. Ten thousand dollars in a paper bag! Serve him right if he, Raleigh Hayes, Little Fellow, Specs, called the state asylum right this minute about committal papers!

  “Ooomiiigodddd! Daddy’s brown-bagging it!”

  Raising his eyes to the stairs where the giggling Caroline, now wearing a Yasir Arafat costume, pointed a finger at him, Hayes noticed that his hand was in fact wrapped around a brown bag wrapped around a bottle that was inexplicably but incontrovertibly opened, for the cap was in his left hand. “Did you clean up your room?” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir.” A preposterous claim, as the Army Corps of Engineers could not have done the job in less than a month. “You said it was trashy to drink from bottles.”

  “I have an abscessed tooth.” Having heard himself say this, Hayes turned the darkest shade of the proverbial beet. He had lied. Moreover, lied uselessly, for the notion of medicinal whiskey meant no more to Caroline than the notion of gaslights or the Fifth Commandment. His daughter immediately seized the advantage and resorted to blackmail, coupled with the parodic flirtatiousness of kissing noises.

  “Well, I won’t tell. Kiss, kiss, please, please, please, can I borrow the car for a second? It’s a total necessity. If I don’t get to the mall and buy a new pair of jeans, there’s no way I’m going to school tomorrow.”

  It was only when he heard the clatter of the Sheffields’ gravel hitting the street that the numb Hayes, while hiding the cash in his socks drawer, brought to full consciousness the fact that he had either absentmindedly handed his daughter the keys to his car, or that she had already made her own set from a wax impression. At
any rate, she was gone; his wife was gone wherever it was that women went to belly dance in Thermopylae, and he (with so many errands to run— buying cabins, locating some lost black man, robbing libraries) was stranded in Starry Haven.

  Hayes looked out his kitchen sliders. Protruding from the garage next door was Vera Sheffield’s old yellow Pinto. Never had Raleigh been a borrower, never had he failed to feel a mild contempt for the Sheffields’ addiction to that improvident habit. Nothing could more emphatically prove that he was no longer himself than his decision (hardly a decision, for he was already squeezing through the clumps of shrubbery he’d spaced down his property line) to knock at the Sheffields’ back door and ask Vera to lend him a car with a “God Is My Co-Pilot” sticker on its smashed rear end.

  He hurried across their patio, past his own (rusting) gardening shears, his seed spreader, and his edge-trimmer. Glancing in a pane of the kitchen door, he pulled back the hand he had already raised in order to knock. Shock tingled through him like a shiver; fortunately by instinct his other hand closed around the bottle in the bag that he wasn’t aware he was still carrying, or he would have dropped it. To the Sheffield refrigerator was glued a full-length mirror. In front of it swayed Vera. Or maybe it wasn’t Vera. Maybe it was Dolly Parton. Maybe the buxom star was an old friend of Vera’s, and had asked the Sheffields not to mention it because she didn’t want to be bothered on vacation. No, it was Vera, wearing a platinum wig. She must have lost thirty more pounds since Mingo’s noon report. She must have lost her religion too. Why else would a born-again Christian be wearing black high heels, a black vinyl bathing suit, a spiked dog collar, and swishing a riding crop at her reflection in a mirror alone in her kitchen in the middle of the day? Hayes considered Christ a loose man, but not that loose. However, what most distressed the insurance man on this Ides of March, when his whole world was conspiring to betray him, was to feel against his very own thigh the movement of revolution starting to stir.

  He stepped to sneak backward away, tripped on the prong of a rake he had lent Mingo, and saw Vera turn toward him, the wires on her teeth glistening.