by Edward Lee
Well, anyone who knowed Tritt Balls Conner could tell ya. One thing ya never do is call him a cracker, and another thing you never do is hock in his face. “Dicky!” he fairly yelled. “Git the ballpeen out the truck.”
Aw, shee-it, Dickey complained in his thoughts. Balls were havin’ another swivet, he were. That rummy gal got him all fired up mad. Problee be outs here all night, so’s he kin fuck with her… Dicky retrieved the aforementioned hammer an’ gave it ta Balls, who ’mediately brought it down hard—SMACK-SMACK!—on her skinny, stickin’-out collarbones ands then—SMACK-SMACK!—on her hips, so’s she couldn’t move withouts causin’ a greeverous ’mount’a pain. Naw, she couldn’t move much now at all—Balls’ job with th ballpeen had taken the fight outa her a right fast, it did—but she could still scream ta holy heck, so’s Balls, then, he stucks the hammer handle inner yap and pulled it back, stretchin’ her mouth open wide, and puttin’ a end ta her noise. Then he leaned down real close like, coughin’ up a good many chest oysters and took ta hockin’ ’em right inner open yap. Shee-it, Balls about filled her mouth up with his spit’n phlegm, and it were a might gross ta watch. Then he pulled out that hammer handle and palmed up on her chin, shuttin’ her yap ’fore she’s could hock it out. “Swaller, bitch,” Balls commanded, increasin’ the pressure ’gainst her chin. “Swaller all them there loogies ’less ys wanna broke neck. You needs ta be taught ta never—an’ I means NEVER—hock a spitter in Tritt Balls’ face!”
Eventually, the poor gal obliged, swallerin’ that big snotty, lumpy mouthful’a hock. Then she bursted a fresh scream from her broken bones scrapin’ as Balls flipped her over an’ got ta conrholin’ her real hard’n fast. “Hail, Dicky,” he pointed out. “Ain’t no shit up her butt, like nones at all! A’corse, I’se guess that makes sense on account she probably ain’t et no food in months. Just livin’ on corn liquor an’ all that Kentucky cracker peckersnot she suck out fer free hooch, huh!”
Balls worked her butt but good, humpin’ it twennie minutes at least. Then he grunted out an’ had his nut right up her dry backside, he did. “Hail Dicky, that was shore a fine nut. Shore ya don’t wanna piece?”
“Naw, I’ll’se pass, Balls.”
Balls pulled out, wiped his dick off inner ratty hair. By now, a’corse, there weren’t much fire left inner at alls. She just lay there on her skinny belly, moanin’ an’ groanin’, with blood smeared alls over her skinny buttcheeks. Lotta blood, it were, shellackin’ her like a ten-coat lacquer job. Yeah, ol’ Balls shore had tored her ass up. In fact, when Dicky looked close he swored he could see half the inside’a her asshole hangin’ out that there busted hole, likes a bunch’a ground pork slicin’s sittin’ right there ’tween her cheeks.
“Come ons,” Balls saaid. “Let’s git outa here.”
“But, Balls!” Dickey interjectered. “Ain’t we’se gonna kill her? I’se mean, we gots ta kill her, don’t we’se? The cops might find her, ands she could give ’em our descrip-sher-uns.”
Balls sniffed his fingers after stuffin’ his pecker back’n his drawers. “Shee-it, Dicky. Ain’t not cops ’round here. Ain’t no ones gonna find this rummy cracker whore this far back’n the woods.”
“But—but—” Dicky didn’t understand. “Don’t’cha wanna kill ’er?”
“Naw, Dicky Boy. She cain’t move a lick after that ballpeenin’. Best ta just leave her, ya know?” Balls brushed his long hair out his eyes, readjustered his John Deere hat, an’ laughed high an’ hard. “Best ta leave the possums somethin’ ta et. They’ll et her up good, those possums will, an’ I’se say let ’em et her up alive.”
— | — | —
FIVE
(I)
“That was a fantastic meal your aunt made for us,” Jerrica commented, jingling her car keys. “Christ, I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in—well, I can’t even remember. Since I got hired by the Post, I’ve been living on coffee and chili dogs from the corner stand on 15th Street.”
Charity’s aunt had prepared dinner, and Jerrica was right, it was very good. Country fried steak, local butter beans, homemade sourdough rolls. Charity hadn’t eaten much herself, though, her appetite stymied. Somehow, the presence of Jerrica’s slim, vital physique made Charity self-conscious. Chili dogs, huh? I wish I could eat chili dogs and have your figure. Even Jerrica’s scant attire—cutoff jeans and a parrot-green halter—made Charity feel frumpish in her plain blouse and billowy blue skirt, an old maid before her time. It was a peculiar clash of notions: that she could like Jerrica so much yet be so secretly jealous.
After dinner, they’d decided to go for a drive; Jerrica wanted to see the town, in order to begin some basic notes for her article. “Are you sure you don’t mind showing me around?” Jerrica asked. “I mean, if you’re too tired, that’s okay; we can go tomorrow.”
“I’m fine,” Charity said, opening the passenger door. “It’s funny—we’ve been on the move since six this morning, but I’m not tired at all.”
“Me either. I’m really excited about being here.” But just as Jerrica would start the car, a voice called out behind them.
“Oh, girls!”
They both looked over their shoulder. It was Aunt Annie standing behind the porch screen.
“It’s getting dark, so mind the roads. And watch for the ’shiners.”
“Don’t worry, Aunt Annie,” Charity called back, repressing a smile. “We’ll be real careful.”
Jerrica turned the small red car around the circled drive. She seemed perplexed, pushing locks of blond hair back. “‘Shiners?” she asked.
“Moonshiners,” Charity added the proper prefix.
Jerrica gazed agape. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You mean like white lightning, bootleg whiskey, stuff like that?”
“Sure,” Charity replied. “Around here they just call it ’corn,’ as in corn liquor. You saw all those cornfields on the drive up—well, they don’t sell it to Green Giant, I can tell you that. Moonshining is big business in these parts, it’s the only steady work for a good chunk of the population. Keep in mind, in Russell County, the unemployment rate is over fifty percent. Almost everybody’s poor, so there’s an instant market for 150-proof liquor that only costs ten dollars a gallon. But the ’shiners make even more money selling the stuff on the other side of the state line. There are a lot of counties in Kentucky that are dry.”
“What do you mean, dry?”
Charity gave a shrug. “Alcoholic beverages are illegal, so there’s a huge demand.”
“Wow,” Jerrica remarked, pulling off onto the Route. Gravel dust skittered behind them. “I had no idea stuff like that still went on. I thought it was just a southern cliche.”
“Around here,” Charity offered, “cliches are a way of life. The ’shiners have to use the backroads to keep the police off their backs; that’s what my aunt meant. They drive like maniacs. In fact, a lot of them are maniacs. I guess anything in moderation is okay, but these people drink corn constantly. It makes them crazy after a while.”
Jerrica paused a moment, as if considering something. “This moonshine stuff is great material for my article, but— Do you think I could get some snapshots of a still, and maybe some ’shiners?”
Charity’s frown made no secret of her disapproval. “Jerrica, around here you don’t want to even mention it. Don’t ask anyone about stills or corn liquor. And don’t get any ideas about snooping around the woods trying to find a still. People get shot for that all the time.”
“I get the message,” Jerrica replied, going a little wide in the eye.
They drove on a ways, the inklings of dusk just beginning to touch the horizon. And, yes, Charity’s earlier observation held true. She’d gotten up at five a.m. to leave D.C. by six, had been cooped up in the tiny car with Jerrica for over nine hours, yet she didn’t feel fatigued in the least. If anything, she felt revitalized, shot in the arm with a brisk new vim. She supposed it could be attributed to an array of things: fresh country air instead of smog; the v
ast stretch of field and forest, unpocked by skyscrapers; plus the persistent rekindlement of childhood memory.
“Okay, this is your home, Charity,” Jerrica pointed out. Now on the open road, her lambent blond hair whipped to a tumult in the steady gust over the convertible’s open top. “Which way do I go to get to town?”
“Luntville isn’t really a town, not as you would think of one. Just old, small houses stretched along the Route and the backroads. There is a main drag, though—Main Street, if you can believe that. Just keep going, then veer left when you see the white church.” Charity let her thoughts swim then, clearing her mind of the world behind her. Raddled scarecrows seemed to stare at her from the endless cornfields. More fields of wild pokeweed shimmered in orange dusk, and beyond, sweeping hills offered the distant silhouettes of blooming white dogwoods, hornbeams, and groundcherry trees. The drag of wind caressed her face, like fastidious, cool hands.
Despite the tragedy of this place, the social grimness that reality had racked upon Appalachia, Charity felt the core of her own realities dissipate to nothing. Her admin job where she’d be lucky to get a raise to $15,000, the stifled city and all its impersonality, and—particularly—her absolute failure with men… This generally ran amuck in her thoughts, but not now, not here. I’m home, she thought obtusely, for it really was an obtusion. Coming here from the city could be likened to moving from one world to another.
“Here?” Jerrica asked.
Charity focused. The white facade of St. Stephen’s Church approached before the orange tint of dusk. “Yes,” she said. “Veer left onto Old Chapel Road. If you go right, you’ll end up in the boonies.”
Jerrica’s slim, tanned arm moved adroitly as she downshifted. The car hitched slightly, the engine revving. They passed the church in a smooth sweep, and Charity felt suddenly blitzed by disappointment. St. Stephen’s Church, once grand and cleanly white, stood now in something close to ruins. Time and neglect had blistered its pristine paint. The fine, glittering stained-glass windows were either boarded up or punched out, showing only tarnished lead lacings. One of the front double-doors hung off its hinge.
Gone to rot, Charity thought. It was a sad realization; in her childhood, the church had always been a proud landmark. Now, though, it remained only as a symbol of everything else around here. Dilapidated, sucked dry of its blood by ongoing recession and apathy.
Jerrica paid it no mind. “That church—it reminds me. Your aunt said something about a priest coming to stay at the house. To reopen Wroxeter Abbey. Will you—” Her words trailed, softened. “Will you take me there?”
“What? To the abbey?”
“Yeah.” Jerrica’s blue eyes thinned excitedly. “I’d love to see it.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing much to see. You heard Aunt Annie; it closed down years ago. It’s probably in worse shape than the church we just passed.”
Jerrica downshifted through another bend, her hair flying. “So? I’m dying to see it. I need it for my article. Come on. Let’s go there now.”
“I don’t even know where it is, Jerrica. You’re forgetting, I left this town over twenty years ago; I don’t know anything about the abbey accept what Aunt Annie said. We’ll have to ask her for directions tomorrow.”
“All right. But I’ve just got to see it. I want to find out all about it. I want to know everything about this area.”
Charity admired her companion’s enthusiasm, however overstated. But why on earth would she want to visit an old abbey, or a still site, for that matter? I guess this place is as new to her as the city was to me… “Here we are,” she said next. They slowed as the road descended, and just as quickly, “downtown” Luntville was upon them. Main Street looked washed out—uneven, drab buildings to either side. A red light winked from afar. “Luntville’s only traffic light,” Charity remarked.
“But…there’s no traffic.”
“Most of the stores close at six.”
“But—” Jerrica decelerated before the light, glancing around as if stunted. “There are barely even any stores. Look.”
Another sad realization, and more proof of this town’s disease. A good many stores along the drag were locked up tight, FOR RENT signs taped to their plate-glass windows. At least Hodge’s Farm Market hadn’t gone under, nor had Chuck’s Diner, which actually seemed to have a few patrons inside.
“Turn here,” Charity said, pointing right. The car purred through the turn, proceeded past another block of closed shops. Then Charity, staring aside, muttered, “Oh, no. I don’t believe it. Even the school is closed.”
Jerrica pulled to a stop, eying the shabby brick building full of broken windows and chained doors. “Did you go there?”
“Yep. Clintwood Elementary. I was just starting the third grade when the state took me.”
“Then where do the local kids go to school now?”
Charity made a tiny shrug. “I don’t know. I guess they bus them to Filbert or Tylersville.”
Jerrica idled on in low. “So far this little trip into town must be real depressing for you. Most of the stores are closed, your school is closed. The whole town looks dead.” But then Jerrica gazed over the open top. “Wait—there’s something. Those buildings there.”
Several three-story buildings faced each other at the end of the street, drab and rundown as everything else, but their windows were full of lights, and within them, hunched figures could be seen.
“Sewing shops,” Charity recognized immediately. “Unless you want to run moonshine, this is about the only steady work a person can get around here.”
“Sewing shops?” Jerrica queried, a bend to her voice. “I don’t get it.”
Charity explained, “It’s been going on since the mines closed. Out of state clothing manufacturers wait till a shop goes under, then rent it for peanuts. Then they hire local women to do the sewing.”
“Why don’t they just open a plant in their own state, hire their own people?”
“Because they’d have to pay them a lot more. Why hire state residents to sew for seven or eight dollars an hour, when you can truck your fabric here and get women to do it for minimum wage? When people haven’t worked for five years, they’ll take any wage. I guess anyone would.”
“They’re sweat shops, you mean?”
“Yep. Round the clock shifts. And no one is allowed to work more than thirty-one hours a week.”
Jerrica looked at her. “Why?”
“Because anything more than thirty-one is considered full time. Then the home company would have to pay unemployment insurance and a higher state accident fund.”
“Jesus. Corporate America. What a bunch of cheap shits.”
“They’ll look for any loophole to save money and exploit workers.”
Dusk now bled more darkly into the famished recess that was Luntville. Jerrica turned on her headlights, took a pair of lefts, and cruised up the next block, where several more sewing shops stood, interspersed by ruined buildings. But then a lit sign appeared through the murk: DONNA’S ANTIQUES, and even this late, it was obviously open for business, for a lone man went into the front door just that moment. Down the street, several more shadows approached.
“That’s about the silliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Jerrica said. “It’s going on nine o’clock. Who’s going to buy antiques at this hour? And who’d want to open an antique store here in the first place.”
Charity raised her brows. “Well, because it’s not really an antique store; that’s just a front.”
“A front? For what?”
“Donna’s Antiques is actually the local bordello.”
“You’re kidding me? An old-fashioned brothel? A whorehouse?”
“That’s right, I’m afraid. There’s no police department in Luntville, and since Russell County is uncharted, there’s no county police force either. The only real law enforcement we have comes from the State and a small sheriff’s department, and they’re spread way too thin to begin with. So they look the
other way, so to speak, as long as things don’t get out of hand.”
“Unbelievable.” Jerrica sounded astonished.
“There’s a bar around here too, or at least there used to be,” Charity remembered. “The Crossroads I think it was called, right around the corner.”
“Oh, good,” Jerrica commented, making the turn. “I hope it’s still there, ’cos I could definitely use a drink.”
“You’re not serious!” Charity startled. “We can’t go to the Crossroads!”
“Why not?”
“Well…it’s, you know, for men.”
Jerrica smirked. “What, bars are only for men?”
“No, but—well, it’s not what I’d call…sophisticated at all. It’s pretty rowdy, I suspect.”
“A redneck watering hole, in other words?”
“Yes! They have dartboards and pool tables.”
“Oooo, sounds like bad news to me.”
“If we go there, they’ll, you know, they’ll leer at us. They’ll try to pick us up! Really, Jerrica, we shouldn’t go in.”
Jerrica wasn’t listening. “All right!” she celebrated.
Ahead, the high postsign blazed in blue neon: CROSSROADS. A long, squat tavern with tawdry blinking lights. “It’s still here,” Jerrica rejoiced. The red Miata prowled for a parking space. Music rumbled in the air, rising and falling as the front door opened and closed. Hoots and hollers abounded from within. The gravel lot looked about half full, with pickup trucks and dented hotrods, plus a few poorly-kempt motorcycles.
Jerrica parked the car. Charity struggled not to complain.
“Come on,” Jerrica insisted. “We’re going in.”
««—»»
Dust eddied up from the wood floor’s seams as they marched through an entrance spotted with more garish, blinking lights. Charity followed reluctantly along, but Jerrica felt electrified. Yes, this was a real “slice of life” bar: a dump. Jerrica, of course, was no stranger to bars, but this place? Its frowziness seemed so genuine—its cheap tables and tacky padded booths, its dartboards and pinball machines—and this delighted her. She wanted reality for her article. Well, here it was. A working man’s bar in the depths of Appalachia.
