Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah

by Welch, Annie Rose

  I threw my bag down, took the ticket out of my pocket, and tacked it to the wall of papers we had found that we thought were cool. There was an old cigarette pack and a drawing of a naked woman with stars as her fleshy boobies. I walked over to the stereo in the corner, took Dylan’s mixtape out, and put in REO Speedwagon.

  Jesse plopped down in the big beanbag chair in the corner and started taking out the snacks Mrs. Presley had packed. He gave us each a Moon Pie and a RC Cola. The drink was hot and the pie was smashed and melting, but it was good anyways.

  Curly took the blowup guitar from the shelf lined with baseballs and poker cards, strumming it like it was real. He started to sing along to the music, slashing his head back and forth, closing his eyes tight. Heaven Almighty, a real cootie bug. While Jesse started to count his suga’ pills, afraid he would run out, I started loading the camera up with film.

  “Did you hear that?” Curly paused his solo, thumb ready to begin again once all was clear.

  I shook my head and kept concentrating on what I was doing, trying not to get sticky goo from the Moon Pie on the film.

  “Turn that lower.” He motioned to the radio.

  Jesse leaned over and lowered the volume. I stopped fiddling with the camera, listening harder. It sounded like men’s voices, but we were all alone. Then I heard a scrambling noise and knew who it was right away. It was Wild Thang’s mascot, a squirrel we named Fat Squirrel. He was the fattest squirrel we had ever seen. He loved Moon Pies too. He was real friendly. He would take the food straight from your hands, and because he was too fat to run away, he waddled away.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, he came scurrying into the only window in the place. You could see out through the spaces in the thick branches, but you couldn’t see in.

  Curly laughed and handed him a piece of his pie. Fat Squirrel sat in the window, his small hand-like paws holding his treat, just a-nipping at the graham cracker. It sounded like he was making a clicking sound with his teeth as his beady little eyes darted back and forth, watching us. His eyes were the only things quick about him.

  I finished putting the roll of film in the camera, and as Jesse and Curly started discussing how disgusting Mrs. Beastie’s underarm sweat was during English, I heard more voices. I quieted them down as I moved to the window and peeped out through one of the gaps.

  Judge Booty, the man Jesse’s dad didn’t trust, was standing about ten tall trees away from us. His back was to us, but there was another man in front of him and they were arguing. The other man was young, steadily smoking a cigarette. He was puffing so hard and so fast, the cherry seemed to continuously glow.

  I could hear their voices rising. Booty kept throwing his hands up in the air, but he mostly pointed toward where we were. He was so mad, the next time he pointed, I actually stuck my back to the wall because I felt like he was pointing at me.

  Jesse and Curly hovered around the window with me, watching.

  “What do you think they’re arguing about?” Curly whispered.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. But be quiet, because whatever it is, it’s heated.”

  Jesse’s face went pale. He looked more than a tad sick.

  “Don’t worry.” I patted his shoulder. “If you want to go and hide in the closet, we’ll come and get you after they leave.”

  We had found a secret closet that was built into the hut. It was the same color as the walls, and the line to the door matched the creases around the room. Like Wild Thang, we had found it horsing around one day. Dylan had slammed me into the wall and it popped open. It was small, only able to hold two of us, but it was fun to dare Jesse to go in there because he always passed out from the fright of being in a dark place.

  Jesse shook his head, clutching his Presley pack to his chest.

  “Toots, come see this,” Curly whispered so low, I hardly heard him.

  I stood next to him. We watched as the two men continued to argue. This time, Booty pushed the guy. I grabbed the camera I had just loaded and stuck it between the bushes and clicked the button.

  “What are you doing?” Jesse rasped-whispered. “What in the hell are you doing!” he said again, this time more panicked.

  I waved my hand behind me. “Quiet.”

  Booty pushed the man again. The man shook his head and started walking toward our tree.

  “Oh shit!” Curly said.

  I threw my hand over his mouth and shook my head.

  “Oh—” Jesse let out a long wheeze “—shit, what?” he barely got out.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, putting my pointer finger to my mouth. I continued to watch the man walk toward us, constantly pulling on his cigarette, cherry still glowing like a damn fire. When he was just a few feet away, he stopped and turned his back to us. He kept his front to Booty. Jesse’s daddy was right, people were afraid he was going to kick them in the ass. I kept the camera steady.

  “You didn’t do what I asked,” Booty said, gritting his teeth, spitting from the side of his mouth.

  “If you want to check the damn tree, you check it yourself. I checked it earlier. There was nothing there! Nothing, it’s just a tree!” The man took another long drag. He blew the smoke and I could see it rising, smell it filling my nostrils.

  Booty pulled a gun from his pocket. The man lifted his hands. I pressed my finger down. Booty pulled the trigger. The camera clicked. The loud gunfire shocked Jesse so bad a huge wheeze erupted from his mouth, almost like a belch. He started to panic, pacing the floor and gasping for breathes. He was unzipping his Presley pack, searching frantically. His miracle pills and the syringe with the clear liquid went falling to the floor.

  “Where—” he wheezed out a long one “—is my sys—” another long wheeze “—tem!”

  I grabbed Curly by the shirt—he was glued to the window like someone pasted him there—and whispered in his ear, “Take Jesse into the closet and don’t come out. No matter what, you hear me!”

  “I’m too young to die,” Jesse was whisper-rasping over and over.

  Curly grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him in to the closet. After I made sure that the door was lined with the rest of the creases in the wood, I went back over to the window. Booty was standing over the man. He was lying on the ground, a big black spot on the front of his shirt right where his heart would be. A gurgling sound rose up from him, the sound of it drifting like the smoke, and then it stopped.

  Booty stood over him for another few minutes. Then he looked up, right at me. I stood perfectly still because I didn’t know if he could see me or not. After he stared long and hard he started walking back toward the direction he came from. I took the camera out and clicked—he stopped dead in his tracks.

  Fat Squirrel was running along the tree branches. I could hear his scurrying. This must have derailed him because he continued to walk until he reached the spot he was at before. He rested his back against a tree, just fiddling with his gun. After he was done he stuck it back in his pocket.

  I stood deathly still, afraid one noise might tip him off. But my hands were shaking so bad, the camera was bouncing up and down like it was on a trampoline full of rowdy kids.

  I don’t remember how much time had passed. When you’re afraid, time goes by painfully slow. Like someone has smashed the watch of the timekeeper and he’s busying trying to put it back together while you suffer. I heard more rustling, and when I narrowed my eyes and got a good look, it was another man. Judge Pilgrim. They shook hands.

  God Almighty, he was in on it too!

  No, no, wait, he wasn’t.

  They were starting to argue. I heard a thump against the hidden closet door. Jesse must’ve passed out. Good, he was better off. I just hoped he hadn’t died from the fright. He said it was hereditary.

  I turned my attention back. Their voices were raised, the argument heated. Booty reached for the gun again. He pointed it in the air and then pulled the trigger. One blasting shot went off. I clicked the camera. Birds flew from the trees as Fat Squi
rrel came jumping through the window, scaring the toots out of me.

  Booty had the gun pointed toward Judge Pilgrim. Judge Pilgrim’s hands were up in surrender. I clicked again; neither of them seemed to notice. Judge Pilgrim took off running and Booty, being the coward that he was, shot him in the back. His body went falling forward, a patch of leaves scattering around him as he tried to crawl away. Click, click.

  Booty walked over to Judge Pilgrim, stood over his body, said something—I held the camera as steady as I could and kept my finger halfway pressed down—and when he pointed the gun at the man’s head, I started clicking.

  Pop-click-pop-click, click, click, click.

  It took me a moment to realize I could stop. There were no more gunshots and Booty was walking away, toward us again. I quickly withdrew my arm from the window, pasting my back against the wall.

  I noticed there was liquid seeping from the closet. Either Curly or Jesse must’ve pissed their pants. Oh, God Almighty, I hoped with all the free hope roaming around in the world that the river of it wouldn’t trickle out and hit Booty in his head. It wasn’t raining, so he’d assuredly know it was coming from Wild Thang.

  I decided to steal a peak out the window again to see where his position was. He was standing over the dead cigarette man again, starting to strip him of his clothes. He stopped for a moment, looked up, right in my direction. I froze. His eyes were hard and cold. I couldn’t move. What’s almost worse than knowing? Not knowing.

  Booty was holding the man’s arm. He let it go, the dead weight plopping down on the ground with a solid thud, pushing a few of the leaves beneath him away. “If there is anyone around here, you better come out right now. If I find you, if you’re hiding from me, it’s only going to make things worse for you. I like games. And I always win,” he spat.

  Don’t say anything, Toots…not a damn thing. Keep very still and pretend like you’ve passed out, like Jesse does. Keep steady, keep steady, he’s walking and he’s looking around. That must mean he doesn’t see you, he doesn’t know. He’s just threatening…keep very still…keep very still…

  Booty took the gun out again and pointed it toward the tree. His finger pressed heavily on the trigger, bullets flying out on command. I flinched and then dropped to the floor. I heard the gunshots pierce through the wood, but I didn’t know where they peppered, or if they hit anything.

  I didn’t even know if I was—Oh, God Almighty, I could be hit! I ran my hands over my body but I seemed to still be in one piece. No holes or meaty pieces hanging from anywhere.

  Things quieted down soon after. I took the pack of spearmint gum out of my pocket and popped two white squares. A few steady breaths, some hard chewing, and I stood up, as quiet as a church mouse, and looked out the window again.

  Booty had dragged poor, dead cigarette man toward Jude Pilgrim, his face shoved in the ground like a piece of trash. I had never hated anyone so much in my life. Hated or feared someone so much. There’s a thin line between fear and hate, and it’s a real easy bridge to cross.

  I grabbed the camera again, clicking as he undressed them both, dragging them to unknown parts of the woods.

  I couldn’t help but grin at this satisfaction. Booty made two very grave mistakes that day in the woods.

  I saw exactly where he buried Judge Pilgrim; between two tupelo trees. Tommy had carved a picture of Fat Squirrel on each one—always having to do two of each—as part of a map to Wild Thang, just in case we forgot where it was.

  I realized then he must have planned this because he put on gloves and had a shovel stashed behind a tree. Cowardly bastard.

  He took a short break. He wiped his head, pulling out a bottle of tequila. He chugged it, wiping at his face again; bloodstains left behind from his dirty hands streaked his forehead. Then he buried their clothes right below us. It took him forever. He was dripping sweat like a tupelo tree drips honey, and he was cursing the cigarette man the entire time. If I didn’t think he was crazy after shooting two men, I sure knew it then.

  Not only was he talking to himself, he was answering back. Jesse’s daddy always said, “Everyone talks to themselves; that’s normal. But when you start answering back, might as well slap one of those ‘I’m real buggy’ bumper stickers to your car.” The killer was also answering himself in different voices.

  First, he was answering in the cigarette man’s voice. He was pretending to smoke while he did it. He pretended to put the ciggie out, stomping his foot into the ground like my cousin Ruby throwing a tantrum over her wanting my ice cream. He shook his body, like it was made of fleas, and then became Judge Pilgrim. His voice matched the judge’s with an uncanny ability that was truly frightening. I think that scared me the most. He was really good at it, just like a parakeet.

  After he was done burying all of the evidence, he took another long look up at the tree. I had a real bad feeling that he was going to climb up at any second. All I could manage to think was that girls are nothing but trouble with all their green. And then “Always On My Mind” started to play in the foreground of my mind.

  It was like the background music to my death scene in some horror movie. Funny the things you think of when you think your life is going to end. And it’s not even right things—like your mother or daddy, or even your brothers. Or all the wrongs you’ve done, like stealing that skinny little kid’s rice cereal treat at lunch when you know damn well he needs more meat on his bones.

  Yeah, it’s strange things. Like, Why didn’t I dress differently today? I wore Joker underwear! Everyone knows if you’re going to die you should wear Batman. Let the cops know you were the good guy, not the bad. You didn’t deserve the massacre that was brought upon you. Or Why didn’t I throw that spit ball in the boys’ bathroom when I had the chance? Now that was really living.

  There was nothing I could do then about it all. He murdered two, was about to murder three more. Then talk back to himself in all our voices. Before he killed me, I was going to talk like Porky Pig, just to make a fool of him. But after Booty stared long and hard, he left. Just like that. He was there and then he was gone.

  I was still scared shitless, though. I had no idea if he was hiding or if he was really gone.

  I opened the door to the closet. Jesse fell out, right at my feet. His black hair was matted to his head with sweat, his tongue hanging out, just like a limp dog’s. Curly looked up at me, his body shaking, his eyes blinking rapidly, like he wanted to take a decent picture to replace what just happened. He had peed his pants.

  Curly and me huddled around together, with Jesse passed out between the two of us. We didn’t leave until that night, when our parents, Dylan, and Tommy came looking for us.

  We had made a pact. We had made a pact over the bullet holes that had pierced through the wood of Wild Thang that we would only repeat what happened that day to Dylan and Tommy. I developed the photographs because they didn’t believe us, but after they saw the evidence, they were true believers.

  It was a blessing and a half that my brother, Randy, was the one who worked at the photo lab. He was too busy trying to impress the ladies to even bother to really look at the pictures. Randy put me in charge of development at times, because he was too lazy to do all of the work himself, and I made sure he didn’t see any of the incriminating pictures. I offered to do the work for free—he wasn’t any wiser than he had been the day before.

  From that day forward, we would always stand up for the weak and innocent and do our part to uphold justice.

  We never turned Judge Booty in. We were all too afraid of him. The entire town of Tupelo was afraid of him. They didn’t know what had happened, but they had their suspicions.

  We all pitched in and bought a safe. We had Jesse’s daddy open a safety deposit box for us, under the impression that we had made a time capsule we vowed never to open until we were seventy. We used our chore money to support our secret. When we grew up and got real jobs, we did the same.

  No one ever found Judge Pilgrim. The cigaret
te man, he was never mentioned. We named him REO, and sometimes we would buy cigarettes for him and leave them around because we didn’t know where Booty had buried him.

  But we knew the truth. And the truth can sometimes be just as disastrous as the lies you spread. Booty’s second mistake…well, you could call that a bunk of punk kids hiding in a secret tree house.

  It’s a dangerous thing to have a secret roaming around the planet like that. Because you never know when it will come back to haunt you—ghosts, they’re not always quiet, and sometimes they look for any excuse to dredge up your past. They smoke their messages, creating old scenes in the ashes of the fire you created with your own hands.

  We watched men get murdered, and I never did get to see Elvis. They all seemed to disappear into thin air, without a trace they were even there. The next week, Jesse had another allergen added to his list—smoke.

  None of us were ever the same.

  Hank sat in the corner of Wild Thang wondering why all of a sudden Judge Pilgrim was on his mind, and REO, the other man who was killed that no one had mentioned or bothered to look for. He hadn’t thought about them in forever, always trying to forget the ghosts who never got justice.

  He was dressed in a black tuxedo, jacket off and spread behind him. His bowtie was untied and falling sloppily around his neck. He fingered his black suspenders and then searched his pockets, pulling out a pack of spearmint gum. After that day in the woods he had an obsessive-compulsive disorder with chewing it. He always had a pack on him. His breath always smelled of mint.

  He picked up the tequila from the floor, its color shining in the dim light like unfound gold in a mine. He stared through the bottle at his floating friends.