The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  “Accordingly?” I offered.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Accordingly. Did it go accordingly?”

  I downed half my drink, set the glass forcefully on the bar and topped it off with vodka. “It went the way it was supposed to go,” I said, then took another long pull. I hadn’t been drunk in awhile, not since the night at Moker’s Hill, but today seemed as good a day as any.

  Elise made an obvious effort to overcome her nervousness and moved around to my side of the bar. She touched my arm. “He went for it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” She reached for my chin, pulled my face down to look at hers. No tears there, only steeliness and determination. Fear and pain hid behind them, I knew her well enough to be aware of that, but anyone else would think she felt nothing. She said, “Charlie. We can still . . . we can call this off, if that’s what you want.”

  I gazed down at her.

  Who is Perrin? Is he yours, Elise? Is he your child?

  I said, “No. We’re not calling anything off. Everything’s set, all systems go. By this time Sunday this will all be over with, for good or ill. He took the bait.”

  She took a deep steadying breath. “By this time Sunday. My God. Charlie, do you know what Sunday is? It’s the one year anniversary.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Jathed’s disappearance. The last time anyone saw him . . . it was at the Baptist Convention in Memphis. One year ago Sunday.”

  Well, that was interesting. I laughed, short and sharp, and Elise flinched as if I’d slapped her.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s not funny. It’s odd, is all.”

  But it was funny, really. In its way.

  “I suppose it is,” she said, although she didn’t seem particularly amused. Then, “When? When does it happen?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  She nodded, and then the emotion started to show through. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Oh, Charlie, I don’t . . . I don’t think—”

  Her words choked in her throat and she threw her arms around me and buried her head in my chest and cried.

  Not sad tears, though. It was fear, fear that made her cry. I could smell it, and you know . . . it just wasn’t a smell you want to get used to.

  I stood near the trees across the road from China Bones’s house, and the setting sun drenched the house in blood. For an hour I’d stood there, like the depraved serial killer in some teenage slasher flick, waiting for the sun to set, waiting for darkness. Smoking cigarettes, drinking straight from the bottle, watching the house and the signs of life inside it.

  They were at home. Twice I’d seen a woman appear at the front window, older, wearing heavy black glasses and a too-tight dark t-shirt over her hefty frame. Presumably China’s mother. And China himself showed once, about half an hour earlier—stepped out onto the front porch, sipping a Coca-Cola, lingered for a few minutes in the coolness of early evening, then went back inside.

  No sign of the boy, though. No sign of Perrin.

  Earlier, I’d stopped by the package store on Main and bought a fifth of Jack. The clerk knew me, of course, knew I was assistant to the mad old Reverend, but I didn’t care anymore. I ignored the uncomfortable stare and left with my booze and made my way to the general store to buy Tassie some canned foods. Then I spent a great chunk of the afternoon wandering around town, looking for China, before finally traipsing through the woods to his modest home at the far end of town. Apparently, he was making a stay-at-home day of it. Surprising, since Friday night usually found him down in front of the bar, singing and strumming.

  Standing there, with darkness cozying up around me and the shadows growing on the ground, one thought occupied my mind. Why? Why the hell was I here? What did I really expect to come of this visit?

  But it didn’t matter. I could question my own motives until Kingdom Come and it wouldn’t make any difference. Other questions were far more significant, and all I knew was that I would have the answers, one way or another.

  A light came on in the living room, shining through thin, off-white drapes, and I took that as my cue. I set the bottle of Jack among the tangled roots of a tree, took a long drag on my smoke—last one in the pack— flicked the butt onto the side of the road and crossed.

  And what would Kyle have said?

  Stop, he’d say. Why don’t you just leave it alone, bro? Don’t drag these people down into your sick little maelstrom. Leave it alone.

  But of course Kyle wasn’t there, Kyle wasn’t coming back ever, probably.

  So to hell with you, Kyle. Abandon me, just like Dad, just like everyone else, leave me when I need you. To hell with you.

  I crossed the road and climbed the steps to China’s front porch and knocked hard on the door. From inside, I could hear the sound of canned sitcom laughter, and a woman rattling off witty dialogue—Yes, but then what’s he gonna do with his golf balls?—and then more laughter.

  “I’ll get it, Gramma,” China said, from the other side of the door. Gramma, then. Not his mother.

  I had my hands in my pockets when he opened the door, and before he could say anything I grinned at him. “Evenin’, China Bones.”

  He looked puzzled for a minute, trying to figure out just what the hell I was doing there, or how I knew where he lived. Then he said, “Evenin’, Mr. Wesley. What brings you out this way this time a’night?”

  Standing there in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, not about to extend an invite.

  “Would you believe,” I said, “that I was just passing by? Thought I’d stop in and say howdy?”

  A wry smile touched his lips. “No, Mr. Wesley, I don’t reckon I would believe that, now you mention it.”

  “Who is that?” Gramma Bones’s voice carried shrilly from the living room.

  “S’frienda mine from town, Gramma, just stopping by for a minute.”

  “Well, invite him in, boy, don’t leave the door open and let all the bugs in.”

  “He wasn’t staying, Gramma,” China shouted back over his shoulder. He turned back to me. “Right, Mr. Wesley?”

  “I want to talk to you, China.” My voice slurred a bit, the effects of the whiskey.

  “Can’t right now. Just finished up supper, gotta go do the dishes.”

  “Let ’em soak. It’s important.”

  He sighed. “What do you want from me, Mr. Wesley?”

  “Perrin. I want to know about Perrin.”

  He straightened, any trace of levity evaporating. “We got nothing to say to each other.”

  He stepped back and started to close the door. I said, “China, do not shut that door in my face. I’m not in the mood to play games.”

  “No games, no conversation, no nothing. Why don’t you just leave us alone?”

  And the door began to swing shut.

  I blocked it with my foot, then shouldered my way in. China didn’t try to stop me. He stepped back, looking resigned. “Well, why don’t you come on in, then.”

  The hallway was small and dark, wood-paneled, walls covered with old lady bric-a-brac. A wooden stairway led up to the second floor, hidden in darkness. The only light filtered in from the living room, the TV, where Gramma watched her sitcom. I saw her out of the corner of my eye, rising from her chair in alarm.

  “China,” she said, her voice shaky. “What’s going on here? Who is that?”

  “It’s nothing, Gramma. Watch your show. Are you taping it for me?”

  “Ti-vo’s runnin’. Who is that?”

  “I tol’ you, it’s my friend from town.” He said to me, quietly so Gramma couldn’t hear, “Why you wanna bust in like this, Mr. Wesley? You get off on scaring ol’ ladies?”

  “I just want answers, China. The sooner you give them to me, the sooner I’ll be out of your life.”

  He said, “I’m starting to think that won’t be nowheres near soon enough.”

  “I want to know about Perrin. I want to know who he is, what he’s doing here.”

  China shook his h
ead, his mouth grim, and I could see the beginnings of an angry fire sparking in his eyes. He said, “I don’t get you, Mr. Wesley. I mean I just don’t get you. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Forcing your way into my family’s home, nosing into things that don’t concern you none. Perrin is part of my family. He’s my brother, you understand? He’s lived here since he was a baby and he’s happy here and we’re happy. Ain’t nobody judging us, nobody giving us grief, until you come along.”

  “I’m not judging you. I’m just—”

  “Giving us grief, that’s what you’re doing. We’ve lived happily for eight years now, me and Gramma and Perrin. We don’t need you coming round and kicking our legs out from under.”

  “Goddamnit, China,” I said, feeling the first wave of nastiness come over me. “Who is Perrin’s mother?”

  “Now—”

  “Is it Elise Garrity?”

  “I don’t see how it makes no difference.”

  “Then tell me. If it makes no difference, tell me.”

  He looked at me, long and hard. I noticed that the sound of the TV in the other room had stopped—Gramma had turned it down, trying to hear what was going on, trying to determine if her grandson was in trouble.

  China said, “Yes. Miss Garrity is the mother. All right, then? You have the answer to your question? Then it’s time for you to go.”

  But he made no move to usher me out. I stood there and waited for some emotion to come, some feeling to attach to this fact that I already knew, deep in my gut. But no emotion came.

  With a bit less venom than before, I said, “Why, China? Why is Perrin here? Didn’t she want him?”

  China matched my softening attitude. “It wasn’t a matter of wanting him or not wanting him, Mr. Wesley. It weren’t up to her. The Widow Garrity, she . . . she didn’t want no scandal. She was gonna make Miss Elise give the boy away, give him up for adoption. But me and Gramma, we convinced them to let us take the boy, raise him up in a loving home. We don’t have a lot of money, but Miss Elise helps us out, gives us some money every month for basic expenses.”

  China waited out my silence for a moment, then said, “Now you know. And what good has it done for you? What do you come away with?”

  I said, “One last question. Who is the father?”

  He shook his head. “That don’t make no difference. Just leave it alone now.”

  “Who is the father, China?”

  “I can’t talk about that, I told you. I promised I wouldn’t talk about—”

  I grabbed China by his neck and slammed him into the staircase railing and squeezed his throat. “Goddamnit, China, I’m not playing! Who is the boy’s father?”

  He struggled against me, his thin fingers clawing at my hand around his neck. Desperately, he kicked at my legs, but I ignored the pain and kept pushing against him. “Who is it, China?”

  “Leave him alone, you leave him be!” Gramma came out of the living room, carrying a Coca-Cola bottle. She came at me fearlessly, heavy frame lumbering, swatted at my shoulder and back with the bottle. “Get offa him, get offa my boy!”

  She landed a good one on my ear, and for a moment I couldn’t hear anything but ringing. Still keeping one hand around China’s throat, I turned to her and snarled, “Back off! Get the fuck away from me, you old bitch!”

  She paid no attention, just started screaming bloody murder and landing blow after blow with the Coke bottle. With my free hand, I tried to reach for the bottle to take it away from her. The bottle smashed down on the back of my hand, and blood appeared across my knuckles. China kicked at my shin, a good one, and I yelled in pain. “Fuckers! Stop it! Back off!”

  Then a voice from the top of the stairs, a little boy’s voice, “Leave them be!”

  I looked just in time to see Perrin, the spitting image of his mother with red-blond hair and green eyes and thin face, come racing down the stairs and charge at me. Joining the melee like the shortest knight errant ever.

  Before he could reach us, I let go of China’s neck. China stumbled away from me, toward the boy, blocking his path.

  “Leave my brother alone!” Perrin screamed, trying to get past China.

  “Perrin, relax, relax,” China said. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He bent down, held his brother, struggled to calm him. Gramma dropped her bottle and joined them, holding the boy’s hands and whispering soothing words.

  I stood back, my shin aching, my hand bleeding. The family—China and Gramma and Perrin—huddled together, comforting the boy. I looked at them and clenched my fists and my teeth.

  I stormed past them, out the door, and ran, ran away from them.

  It was night, and I had a half a bottle of Jack and no more cigarettes and I stumbled through the woods aimlessly, smelling gunpowder.

  Gunpowder. My imagination, I knew. But I smelled it, and I heard the cop on the other side of my door grunt in surprised pain and slump against the wall and slide to the floor.

  Please, God, he said. Please. I don’t wanna die.

  But he died anyway. Young, fearless. He thought he had a whole life ahead of him, he thought he had forever to meet a girl, fall in love, maybe get married and have a kid. Buy a nice car, maybe, or a house or take a long vacation to Europe or something.

  He never got to do any of that. He never got to do a goddamn thing.

  I took a swig from the bottle and stumbled on through the woods.

  Kyle, Kyle, help me. . . .

  And I was sorry, yes I was, I said so, didn’t I? I was sorry. But was I? Sorry for stealing his dreams, sorry for the pain I’d caused his loved ones, sorry, sorry.

  I gradually became aware that I was yelling something, yelling at the top of my lungs, voice hoarse and scratchy and inhuman. Yelling, ranting, barreling through the forest.

  And oh my God, it’s true, isn’t it? I’m mad. I mean, they told me that, didn’t they? They told me I was mental, that I needed help, and how many times, how many times had I done things that only a madman would do and shrugged them off, saying hey, I’m crazy, what the hell . . . almost proud of it. That’s right, I’m one crazy motherfucker, don’t mess with me, I’ll go lunatic on your ass.

  But it wasn’t like this. There was no perverted pride in this at all. This was bad and evil and twisted. I was bad.

  I drained the bottle, feeling fire burn in my chest and gut, but distantly, then I flipped the bottle in the air, caught it by the neck, and smashed it against a tree. Glass splintered and sprayed everywhere and I felt slivers in my cheek and now my palm was covered in blood.

  I wiped the blood on my shirt and kept moving.

  “Jesus, Charlie,” Tassie said. “What happened to you?”

  She stood there, blocking my way, horror etched into her face.

  “Happened?” I said.

  “Was it them? Did they find you?”

  “Them . . . who them?”

  She looked at me, baffled. “Them, Charlie. The gang. Bad Luck.”

  No memory of how I made it to the cabin. I must have driven at some point, but I couldn’t recall being behind a wheel and the thought caused me a brief moment of panic. But I got over it.

  “No,” I said. “No them. Old lady. And the kid, China. And the white kid. And there was a bottle, too, it broke, it got broken, see . . . and—”

  “Charlie . . .”

  “—cut my hand. My shin hurts like a motherfucker and look at this—” I showed her my hand, blood already congealing, not dripping anymore. “First the knuckles, see, then the bottle got all broken. Hurt my hand.”

  Tassie took my arm, saying, “You’d better come in and sit down.”

  She guided me into the cabin and set me down on a cot. The kerosene lamp on the dining room table burned bright. I could see the remains of a meal on the table, and that reminded me of the food I’d brought her.

  “S’in the Rover,” I said. “Brought food for you.”

  “Okay, Charlie, we’ll get it later. I managed to find a couple of cans of soup i
n the cupboard. I’m okay. But what the hell happened to you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

  She went to the sink, turned on the tap, and came back with a glass of water. Sitting next to me, she handed me the glass and I mumbled thanks and drained it. Then, very carefully, I placed the empty glass on the floor at my feet.

  Bending over caused a wave of nausea to pass through me. I straightened up quickly, tried to breath deeply.

  Tassie said, “I’ll be damned. You’re drunk off your ass, aren’t you?”

  “Whiskey,” I said. “Dunno why I bought whiskey. Got no head for it. . . .”

  She stood up and walked stiffly to the other side of the cabin. I watched her, sensing the anger but not quite certain of why. My head felt fuzzy and achy and something told me if I could just pull it together it would make more sense.

  “It’s a’ whiskey,” I said again. “Never could—”

  She spun around and snapped, “Goddamn you, Charlie, what the hell’s the matter with you? You come back all bruised and bloody, scare the living shit outta me, and then sit there mumbling crazy bullshit.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey nothing. What are you thinking, getting drunk at a time like this?”

  “Time like wha—”

  “Our lives are in danger, don’t you get it? This is not a joke, okay? I came down here because I thought we could help each other. Either one of us, alone, would be as good as dead. But I thought if we stuck together we might have a chance. But if you’re gonna just stumble around smashed outta your skull, we’re as good as dead already.”

  She fumed, staring fury at me, and I could only stare dumbly back. I wanted to say, I wanted to say, Oh, that. The death squad that’s lookin’ for us. Why didn’t ya say? But I didn’t.

  Instead, I just looked at her, feeling the grief well up inside me, the grief that anger had kept down until then.

  Get a grip, Charlie. Don’t start blubbering, goddamnit. Keep it together.

  I said, “I’m bad, Tassie.”

  “What?”

  “I’m bad. Can you help . . . can you help me be not bad?”

  She raised her eyebrows, startled, and I saw the beginnings of a smile.

  “S’not funny, Tassie. I’m bad.”