by Craig Davis
A Few Dead Flies
A small boat sat in the middle of the lake, alone and still, and the sail hung limp.
The summer heat had turned spring’s flowers into husks of fleeting memory, marking a full year since Poncey had worked a steady job. A string of dead-end endeavors had left him penniless and bitter – painting house numbers on curbsides, selling Christmas wreathes made of bubble wrap, planning fishing trips to the creek for non-existent tourists. His entrepreneurial spirit proved far beyond the hoi polloi of Skullbone; these lunkheads wouldn’t know a good deal if it bit their toes, he thought. He had even schemed to lurk about at intersections, ready to wash windshields for unwilling drivers, until he remembered the town had no stop lights, and cars are difficult to wash when they aren’t stationary.
Poncey wasn’t opposed to making a living, but he did bristle at having to try.
So it burned him to the bone when he had to set his aspirations to menial labor. However, after much thought, he finally lit upon an idea that would at least conserve his own effort. His business course at community college had taught him to know a good idea when it hit him.
He knocked upon the door of Mack’s house, the one his mother had left when she passed on to her reward.
Poncey had been to the house a thousand times, going back to the day the MacLenolys had moved to town, when Mack had him over for peanut butter crackers and minor first aid after a small tiff. Poncey had seen Mack’s mom a thousand times as well, but he’d never gotten to know her. She was given to sudden tempers, fiery episodes of exploding chaos, and she kept him always teetering on the brink of alarm.
“Open!” a voice called from a back room.
Poncey wandered in as he was accustomed to. The house looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for three years, the floor – the few bits visible from through the clutter – spattered with varying shades of brown and white. Dust bunnies tumbled lazily under the couch upon the movement of the door. The shelves and all their what-not looked dull and fuzzy.
“Hey, when was the last time you dusted in here?” Poncey asked once he’d found Mack sitting on his bed, looking through an old book. As his best friend, Poncey never let escape an opportunity to give Mack grief.
“I dunno.”
“What a slob. This place isn’t fit for a dog. I can see my footprints in the dust! Don’t you know dust is mostly your own dead skin cells?”
“Well, then, I guess that’s me all over,” Mack murmured, burying his gaze deep within the dingy pages.
“Say, what’re you doin’ this summer?”
“I dunno. What choo gonna do?”
“I got a great idea – a way to make lots of money. But I need you to be my partner.”
Mack finally lifted his eyes, directing a forlorn look toward Poncey. “What choo want from me this time?”
“I’ve got this great idea. We can do landscaping – lots of folks need that. There’d be no end to lawns and hedges and stuff to work on.”
“Yeah, I guess that sounds ’bout right.”
“Sure, an’ I’d spend all my time linin’ up customers. I’d start with all the business owners, ’cause they’ve got the money anyway, an’ we can do their homes an’ the beds around their stores an’ stuff. We’d put up signs sayin’ ‘Muldoon Lawn Service,’ then everyone would see what good work we do, an’ word would spread, an’ I’d start callin’ other folks, an’ before you know it we’d have all sorts of jobs to do. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I tell you, this could be somethin’ big. It could be the biggest landscapin’ comp’ny around here, an’ eventually I’ll open up branches all over. Maybe even all the way to Jackson – maybe to Memphis. This idea’s so big, no tellin’ where it might lead. An’ I’m lettin’ you in on the ground floor.”
“Yeah, well – what choo want me to do?”
“Well, like I say, I’d be linin’ up clients all day, an’ you would be out at the jobs.”
“ ’Zat mean what I think it means?”
“What’s that?” Poncey played innocent.
“I’d be doin’ all the work?”
“Just the easy work. I’d be doin’ all the callin’, diggin’ up new business.”
“An’ I’ll be diggin’ all the dirt. No thanks.”
But Poncey came prepared for this resistance. “Come on, what else’ve you got to do? Sit here in the dark?”
“I got plenty to do ’thout breakin’ my back out in the sun.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Well – somethin’ always comes up.”
“Right. You mean somethin’ like sittin’ on your bed till suppertime? You know you never do nothin’ unless I make you. Am I right?”
“Man –” Mack began to whine.
“You know I’m right. If it wasn’t for me, you’d sit here in the dark all day, pickin’ your nose. Well, this is what’s come up – a chance to make some real dough, if you’re not too stupid to take it. You should be thankin’ me, gettin’ you out in some sunlight an’ fresh air. But no, you just moan an’ cry ’bout havin’ to sweat a little bit.”
“I’m not cryin’, so lay off.” Mack wrenched his shoulders toward Poncey, but never left his perch on the bed.
“Oh, go ahead and cry. Won’t be the first time I’ve seen it – I’m used to it. If you’re gonna act like a snot-nosed kid, maybe I don’t want you workin’ with me. Maybe I don’t want a blubberin’ little baby hangin’ ’round with me. Can’t be seen with you like this.”
“I ain’t blubberin’. ’Sides, you’re my friend, you can’t just dump me.” Mack’s voice sank almost to a whisper.
“I’m not sure I wanna be seen with you. It’d be bad for business, goin’ around with a guy who wouldn’t even work with me. Am I right? Am I right?” Poncey insisted.
“Yeah, sure, whatever! You’re always right!”
“Then’re you gonna get on board? Join my team? Or are you gonna sit there on your lazy butt?”
“All right, all right – just leave me alone!” Poncey’s last question struck a familiar chord with Mack, for he’d often heard his mother ask the same thing, although she usually added the phrase “like your father.” The truth was, Mack didn’t know his father, so the comparison didn’t help him any. But as he grew up, he used this lack of information to make up a succession of wonderful lies to explore the depths of his unknown fraternal genes.
“My pa is an acrobat in the circus, a trapeze artist, an’ he travels all over the world. He invented the triple MacLenoly, named after hisself. He swings high into the air, an’ lets hisself go, spinnin’ and twirlin’ through the sky ’til down he comes an’ lands on the back of an elephant. He can do that ’cause he’s got what they call ‘lazy backside.’ Dudn’t hurt him a bit. They only let him do the trick once, though, ’cause it scared the elephant so much when he landed, the beast panicked an’ ran into the crowd rippin’ up bleachers an’ stuff. My dad, he was ridin’ him like a bull, an’ he steered that elephant right out of the circus tent. Saved ever’body there. They gave him a medal for it, then tole him never to do it again.”
Mack didn’t even have the trouble of keeping up with his tall tales. His mother never spent more than a few months in any one town before both of them would pack up and move along. As soon as the neighborhood children were getting to know his stories well enough to grow skeptical, Mack’s mother would pull up stakes and move on to some other city, and he was free to start over. As a result his mom became the only real point of stability in his life. Mack was never sure why they moved so much, but he took complete advantage of every new audience.
“My dad’s a jet pilot. He got his training flyin’ spy missions over China, but once they figured out it was him, he had to quit. Then he took a job with a secret airline that flies only billionaires with secret identities to their secret missions. The Chinese hunted him down, fine’ly, and planted bombs in all four jets of his plane. There he was, 10,000 feet in the air, an’ al
l his engines exploded. He shifted all the passengers and cargo to the tail section, an’ brought that jet down like a glider. Landed it in Great Salt Lake, and it jes’ floated and bobbed on the surface like a cork. Saved ever’one on board. They gave him a medal.”
As long as Mack could remember, it had always been him and his mom, together through thick and thin. The traveling, or something, lay heavy on his mother, though, and turbulent moods would swell within like thunderheads. She said things to him in those years that he still wondered about now, what she might have meant – words of accusation and blame, casting fault at him for events and issues his child’s mind couldn’t even grasp – and apparently Mack had inherited all his father’s poor characteristics before he lit out, and none of his good ones. Though to go by Mrs. MacLenoly, the man didn’t have any of those to share. So Mack made up some.
“My pa invented travel cups. He’s a travelin’ salesman, out on the road, an’ he got tired of spillin’ coffee on himself. So he made up a metal cap to snap onto a paper cup – he was takin’ metal shop at technical school at the time. But, he gave his idea to this guy he was drivin’ ’round with, some guy who sold milk shake machines. He was about to buy a restaurant chain, an’ my dad felt sorry for ’im, so he gave away his idea. Never got a thing out of it. But he made an ‘A’ in the class.”
The relative reality of his father’s grand achievements fluctuated in Mack’s mind with each new fantasy, but the constant in his life remained his mother, and nothing persuaded her opinion. Sometimes a man would appear – not his father – and an explosion of happiness would overtake his mom. After a few days Mack inevitably would make some mistake, or some random thing would happen, and she would push him away, as though his part was done, and she’d disappear into the evening with the man. Left to fend for himself, Mack would usually wrap himself in several blankets and watch television and eat cold cereal in the dark. Sometimes his mom would still be gone in the morning when he wandered into her bedroom. Then one night sure as death itself she would return home in tears, swinging her purse at the lamps and throwing invective at him. “Why didn’t you help me? You only care about yourself, an’ never think of what I want! You tol’ him, didn’t you? You got between him and me on purpose! You ruin ever’thing!” Then they would move again. “See what you’ve done?” her voice growled.
Mack still remembered, as a small child, sitting on a zebra suspended upon a heavy spring, bobbing back and forth in a city park, scanning the cool greenery. Spotting a stranger who had what he recalled as “a soft eye,” he toddled over to inform him, “My mom doesn’t like little boys,” then turned to walk back to her side. He bore the responsibility for causing all their turmoil, and so also for somehow cobbling together peace in their home. If only he could figure out the right thing to do in any given situation, he could end the sadness. He made himself the only hope for his mother’s happiness, and in return her presence was permanence for him, a strong foundation and a strong wind, and trouble came to feel like a familiar comfort. Mack found ways to deflect the words, and he took to carrying around a copy of The House at Pooh Corner, spending long hours imagining himself within the drawings.
Finally they landed in Skullbone, the tiniest town they’d ever lived in or conceived of. There Mack’s mom seemed to find her level, but storm clouds still loomed always on the horizon, threatening to break over his head at any moment. He never lost hope of doing something – he had no idea what – that would put her mind at ease. Something that would soothe her heart, and fill her with a peace that could overcome whatever other hurt he caused. On that day they would exist together on a different plane, another world with the sky always blue, the land always green with life, the fragrance of warm cookies heavy in the air. Then he would be able to rest too, without worry of conflict, in a place where he belonged, accepted without condition. Gentle arms would take him up and soothe away all the doubts and fears of his past, all the anxieties of an ambivalent future. Then the sound of a slamming door would explode through the house and rock Mack out of his reverie.
So the fantastic possibilities he built around both his mother and father came to nothing. But over the years they had given him an affinity for stories that seemed impossible to believe. He could never quite knit together dreams and reality into a satisfactory covering. Though still she accused his dreams, in the time since his mother’s death, Mack had experienced a haunting emptiness that always begged for filling.
“So are you gonna do it or what?” Poncey persisted.
“Yeah, yeah, just leave me alone.” Mack felt at home.
Poncey soon found that his end of the deal was more difficult than he’d expected. He’d never realized that virtually none of the businesses in Skullbone had even a single bush planted out front. In his door-to-door calls he went so far as to suggest the storefronts needed some greenery, and he’d be happy to put some in, and everyone said they’d think about it, using just that tone of voice that meant they planned to forget as soon as he left. Even Mavis Davis down at the Diner had lost interest in her garden, and had put down black plastic over the bare earth. Poncey fumed at his difficulty; meanwhile, Mack cooled his heels. Finally Rev. Fletcher at First Church took pity on Poncey, and told him he could clear out some brush in the back lot.
First Church was the oldest church in town, so old that it didn’t even have to declare a denomination – it was just First Church. It had started as a little clapboard building when the region was still wilderness, but once that structure burned down, as they all did eventually back then, the congregation rebuilt it in stone. That fact alone made it the most glorious building in all of Skullbone, even though it was no bigger than a couple of double-wide trailers. As well, the little old-world chapel sat upon spacious grounds, including an ancient cemetery, a worn out playground, and a grassy spot in between. Beyond those improvements lay a heavily wooded parcel of land. Taken together, it served as the community’s most proud, quaint and inviting locale.
Every year about that time First Church sponsored a chicken barbecue. The church even had a special sign for the event, ridiculously big, with a painted image of a smiling chicken dressed in an apron and chef’s hat. At her feet several yellow chicks with skimmers and canes danced in a line. In her wing the hen held up a sweating glass of iced tea – couldn’t very well have a chicken brandishing a plate of drumsticks, certainly not at church. Each year Constable Crapo would haul his giant barrel grill onto the parking lot and spend the afternoon getting broiled from top to bottom, by sun and white-hot charcoal, preparing chicken halves for a hungry population. He used a mop to apply sauce to the unfortunate birds – like a lazy janitor dipping it into a bucket of the red goo, then swabbing it over the meat – then with a dangerously short pair of tongs tried to turn the pieces, sweating and cursing and apologizing over the blazing fire. The show itself was better than pro ’rasslin’, folks said, and they came from miles around to attend. Rev. Fletcher liked to say the church budget ran on a chicken wing and a prayer.
Though many customers simply picked up their dinners – complete with beans, coleslaw, cracklin’ bread and sweet tea – others came to stay and watch, something like dinner theater, so First Church set up picnic tables on the grassy area. But bordering that space was the wide swath of woods, and Rev. Fletcher decided the messy bramble that had taken over within the trees needed to go; therefore, he considered Poncey’s solicitation a confluence of events. Poncey considered the job a lucky break, and told Mack to get the work finished before people began to arrive for their chicken.
As chief executive, Poncey planned to arrive at church with a sign just before the crowd appeared, ready to talk up his new business. Also, he hoped that Mack would be long gone by then, so he’d face no pressure to help out. He would spend a glorious afternoon drumming up new clients and eating. But as he climbed the long drive late that morning, the thing that dominated his eye was Rev. Fletcher, standing with his fists on his hips, shrouded by a billowing cloud of c
hickeny smoke.
“It’s about time you showed up,” he said, obviously miffed even in his pastoral way. “I expected this work done by now.”
“What? I’m here for my chicken.”
“Your chicken can wait, Poncey. We agreed you’d get the work done this morning, and you’ve only just gotten here. So that’s what you’ll be doing this afternoon.”
“What? Didn’t Mack finish it already?” Poncey sputtered, looking beyond the reverend to see that the woods had not been touched.
“I don’t know anything about Marlin. All I know is that you promised to have all that brush out by now. Now find yourself some tools from the storage shed and get to work.”
“But Mack was supposed to do all this! I’m just here for chicken!”
“Get to work, Poncey. And don’t disturb the folks who’ll be trying to eat.”
“But – ”
Constable Crapo, laboring away and listening carefully, leaned closer, still bent from hovering over his grill. “Dis sitch’ation we got here is what choo call breach o’ contrack. You want me to run you in or sump’m’? Or you gonna do what Rev’ernd says?” He glared at Poncey from under grimy brows, waggling his tongs for emphasis.
“But – ” Poncey glanced at the sizzling chicken.
“ ‘If any will not work, neither should he eat,’ ” said Rev. Fletcher.
Poncey turned desperate. “But Rev, I don’t think God’s callin’ me to this work.”
“Poncey, sometimes God’s just going to use us the way He wants, like the jawbone of an ass.”
Poncey could tell Rev. Fletcher planned to just out-Scripture him. He was stuck.
Rummaging through the shed, Poncey found a hatchet and thought about using it on Mack. I can’t believe he’d do me wrong this way, he thought, I can’t believe he’s such a miserable friend. He threw his tools into a wheelbarrow and grabbed a garden rake. That jerk had better have a broken leg or something, Poncey fumed, and even so he should have dragged himself out here and lived up to his word. Wheeling toward the woods, he took a corner too sharply and dumped his load on the ground, tripped over the rake and drove one wheelbarrow handle into his gut. Spitting and howling, he beat the wheelbarrow with the rake and swore, “You bleatin’ jack-ass of a mother –,” and just at that moment caught sight of the growing crowd of picnickers, staring at him with round eyes. He sullenly picked up the shambles and slinked away.
“Always a good show here,” Constable Crapo remarked.
The sun’s angle bore down on the face of the woods. Poncey tried to work within the shade of the trees, but the tangle of branches blocked him from swinging the hatchet, so he had to switch to the open heat. He ripped away at the bramble like the Grim Reaper, swinging wildly with his hatchet and temper, until at last his hand was a raw, throbbing mess. He finally stalked back to the shed and found a pair of gloves, grumbling a stream of curses. Poncey tore at the ground with the rake, trying to pull some of the undergrowth out by the roots, but only managed to strain his back. He flailed with the hatchet, but the bushes were just springy enough to frustrate any real cutting. Perspiration dribbled down his forehead and stung his eyes.
Dammit, dammit, dammit, he thought with each blow. He considered how great a revenge he could visit upon Mack and still get away with. A turkey buzzard wheeled overhead, watching and listening. He’s ruining my whole day, Poncey thought, he’s left me to do all this work, and the chicken is going to be cold and dry by the time I get it. Bang, the hatchet came down. I never thought I’d be stuck doing this, he thought, why can’t I just get paid to think, why can’t I think of a job just thinking? He looked at the blade and saw it notched and rounded, and wondered if he could sharpen it without that blowing up in his face as well. The drudgery of it all began to make ideas swim about within his mind, fluid and unformed. I hope Mack is enjoying this afternoon, he grumbled, I hope he likes his time off, because he’s going to pay for it.
Mack was not enjoying his afternoon. His morning had been focused on a screwdriver and a bottle of wine he’d found stowed in his mother’s buffet. Every now and then he stumbled upon some such remnant of her tucked away in the house’s dark corners. The jug lay upon its side under a loose tangle of table cloths, and would have stayed there indefinitely except for Mack’s need to find the perfect hideaway for his Social Security card – he’d suddenly become obsessed with identity theft. Apparently his mom had discovered this hiding place before him. Unable to find a corkscrew, he’d taken up the first tool at hand and began removing the sponge-like cork bit by bit. Poking and twisting, then blowing out the crumbs, he gradually dug ever-deeper into the bottle’s mouth.
At last the seal gave way, and its remains fell into the drink. Mack tried a swig and found it full-bodied but astringent. The red blood of the grape shot from the bottle as he lowered it, spouting into his nose and making him chortle as he swallowed. Another try confirmed the wine to be fat and mature, and Mack sat with his legs out and back to the wall, well situated to deeply explore its vintage. His attention became so enthralled with this treasure, he forgot all about his responsibilities, as well as his identity.
An hour found him on his back, the bottle lying nearby, just a hint of dregs left. Mack snored fitfully as a fly crawled across his face.
Poncey’s eyes and ears had become the focus of a buzzing swarm of mosquitoes. He dropped his tools and slapped vigorously at his head and neck, speckling himself with tiny spots of blood. Prim ladies and little girls both looked up from their paper plates to smile at his gyrations. Poncey grunted and growled as he did battle with the flying menace, and flicked off the carnage in disgust. That’s all I’ll have to show for all this, Poncey thought, a few dead flies – as if I didn’t have enough spoiling this day. I’ll get Mack for this, he won’t forget what he’s done to me. He’ll be one more fly I’ll swat.
Poncey grimaced and again swung the hatchet. Branches reached out in a twisted gesture, catching upon anything they could touch, grasping for survival in the bracken. Kudzu draped itself within and over the undergrowth, a spongy coat of mail fending off every whack of the hatchet. The rake caught on every root and tangled in every vine. After two hours Poncey, pouring with sweat, had hauled out just one full wheelbarrow of brushwood. For the life of him, Poncey could not understand why he was there. He was the boss, he cursed to himself, and Mack the peon; he would get even if it killed him. In the corner of his eye he could see Rev. Fletcher observing.
Poncey imagined what he could do that would hurt Mack most, something that would make Mack afraid of ever crossing him again. He thought of all the rotten things he had done and said before, the innocent cruelties of growing up, and they all seemed laughable in their triviality. He wanted to think of one thing, that one thing that would teach Mack a lesson for the rest of his life, teach Mack to respect him and take him seriously. Something that would burn deep into his soul, like a steaming, stinking brand glowing red with pain.
He stomped deeper into the wood, his mind concentrating upon his foul mood. The slick leaves and mud underneath sent his foot sliding, and Poncey felt himself going down. Wrenching forward to regain his balance, his ankle caught hold of a clump of kudzu that sent him headlong into a shallow ravine. He landed heavily upon his back and felt the wind burst from his lungs. His head lay in the lowest part of the depression, and his chest heaved and convulsed in a panic as it tried to suck in oxygen. Dappled light burned through the murky gloom high above, and he rolled his head to one side. Within his daze his eyes focused on a bright spot of fleshy white. A confused snake reared its head and showed him its gaping mouth; Poncey could clearly see its slitted eye gleaming at him. Another lazily arched across his torso, while a third twisted upon itself like an extension of the prickly bramble, a reptilian smile etching its face. The breathless Poncey struggled to express his hysteria, finally forcing out a bellow in a voice he’d never heard before, and he felt hot moisture fill his pants.
Sounding like a cawing crow, Pon
cey rolled away from the snakes and sprang to his feet. Throwing his knees high as he ran, he churned up the little embankment and burst from the woods like a nightmare. He tripped over the wheelbarrow on his way out and did a perfect somersault to land on his feet and continue on. A little girl screamed as Poncey tore past the picnic tables, and he joined with her on his way past the grill, through Rev. Fletcher’s shocked gaze and down the driveway. He had one thing on his mind: find Mack.
“Always a good show,” Crapo said.
Serpents curled around his neck in a macabre dance and crawled out of his nose, and he thought he felt them pulsing through his veins. Mack awoke with a spastic snort. Banging his head on the floor, a stabbing pain ruptured within and without. He thought he might have died, or that perhaps he was dying, or he wished he were dead. He slowly worked his way up on one elbow, and looked upon his lover lying beside him, drained. The woman’s face on the wine label smiled a taunt, an accusation at him. Suddenly it came to him: He was supposed to have cleared the church’s wooded lot that morning. After some struggle, he got to his feet and stumbled out the door, walking a wandering trail toward First Church.
The sun had already begun to call it a day when he reached downtown. Though his vision still didn’t cut through the blur, he recognized the threatening silhouette coming toward him. Tall and stout, it seemed to be walking as if it were wet. And it was approaching quickly. Mack stopped and considered turning back.
“Don’t you run from me!” yelled the figure.
Mack ran.
Poncey overtook him easily, and grabbed him by the back of the collar. Mack hung in the air like a laboratory skeleton for a moment before slipping halfway out of his shirt, his feet back on the ground, his arms angled upward by his sleeves. Poncey turned him around by the shoulder, a massive towering oak facing down Mack’s scrawny sapling.
“You nearly got me killed!” Poncey screamed.
“What?” Mack rejoined.
“You skipped out on your job! Rev. Fletcher made me do your job, and I nearly got snakebit! I oughta kick your butt!”
“It was a mistake! I meant to go.” Mack supported his head with both hands.
“What’s that smell? You stink like – like rotten fruit.”
“You stink too. What’d you do?”
“Shut up,” Poncey shook Mack. “We’re talkin’ ’bout you, not me.”
“I don’t feel too good.” Mack’s eyes glazed over dangerously. His body heaved, and he threw up a little on Poncey’s shoe.
“Hey! You’re drunk!” Poncey declared with horror, and tried too late to dance out of the way. “Watch what you’re doin’! You got yourself wasted, ’stead of doin’ your job! I could kill you!”
“Do me a favor.”
“You disgust me. I can’t count on you for nothin’, after I find a way for you to make good money, too! You leave me holdin’ the bag, an’ then puke on me to boot?! What a colossal jerk you are!”
“You mad at me?”
“What? What do you think? You skip out on your work, I have to do it, I get all messed up out in the woods, then I nearly get snakebit, an’ you wonder if I’m mad? What do you think?” Poncey tried to wipe the top of his shoe on his already-ruined pants.
Mack smiled slightly. “That’s what I thought.”
“I swore I’d make you pay while I was out hackin’ away at that brush. I swore all the way over here, I was gonna make you pay for this!”
“What choo gonna do?”
“I don’t know. I oughta beat the snot outa you, but I can’t stand to look at you right now.” Poncey almost sounded like he was calming down, but he pushed Mack away violently for emphasis.
“I didn’t mean to skip work. I couldn’t help it.”
“Couldn’t help it? What’s that mean? Someone force you to get dead-from-the-neck-up drunk? You think I’m gonna fall for that lame excuse?”
“No.”
“Look, you work for me, and I’m not gonna put up with this kinda mess! You stabbed me in the back today, an’ I ain’t gonna stand for it! An’ let me tell you somethin’ else – you think Rev. Fletcher’s gonna like it when he hears you got yourself plastered? On the day you were supposed to work at the church?”
“You gonna tell him?”
“I’m not gonna have to – this is gonna get all ’round town on its own. You know how it is here. An’ I ain’t gonna try to keep it quiet!”
“Well, I guess that’s what I deserve, anyway,” Mack’s despondent moan took some of the wind out of Poncey’s sails.
“You bet you deserve it,” he said, defiant against his better nature.
“Can we go now?”
“What?”
“Are you finished? Can we go somewhere?”
“No way.”
Mack stood in silence.
Poncey considered the depth of Mack’s sin, and what judgment ought to befall him. “No. I’ve had it with you. I can’t trust you to work for me, I can’t trust you with anything, an’ I don’t want to see your face.”
“What?”
“I’m done. I don’t want to see you anywhere near me!”
“Oh, come on – ” Mack said.
“No, forget it! I’ve had it with you, once and for all!” Poncey stepped away. “I don’t want any more to do with you! You just stay away from me from now on!” He turned to leave the way he’d come.
“Poncey, come on! You’re my friend!”
“You can forget about that!” Poncey scoffed over his shoulder. “You just keep away from me! If I want to see you, I’ll let you know! But don’t hold your breath.”
The very thing that Mack had most feared was happening to him. The profundity of loss thrust the butt of its hand into his chest again, and he was no better prepared to absorb it now than he was the other times. His lungs felt paralyzed. “Come on, Poncey!” he yelled into the gloaming, but the fading figure gave no reply, and disappeared around the corner of Snodgrass’ Hardware. “I have to hold my breath, the way you smell,” he groused to himself, his best retort, but it was no comfort.
His head still ached. He slumped onto a wooden bench that lined a store front, his legs a-straddle, their weight resting upon the outsides of his feet. The ground propped up his vacant gaze, which only occasionally rose to investigate some noise or flash of light. The sun continued its sinking verdict upon his day, his muddling through, his life. Add another number to the roll of casualties – another death in his spare community. The things he held dear again showed themselves doomed to an abrupt demise, but the open-endedness of his own life terrified him.
“Well – I got no right to be happy, anyway.”
All the businesses had closed for the day, and the sidewalk lay there abandoned, except for Mack. The chicken barbecue would be well over by now, glad and satisfied families going their own ways together for the evening, topping off a fine Saturday, fine fellowship for deserving people. He was left alone to consider the homicide – how he had killed off a merry kinship. Another one gone. The sun cast one more peek over the ragged top of the distant treeline, then slunk away.
Thinking about all he had seen come and go, Mack mulled over the variety of death. What tools one could use, a man might not ever guess – a bottle of wine, a snake, a handful of pills. He looked about him at the possibilities, but he saw nothing, and it made him wonder. Who ever knows what the wind will blow his way? Perhaps nothing. “All my life, I am always dying. Why can’t I ever die?”
Mack stood and shuffled about in front of the bench, the pavement now lit only by the dim streetlight directly overhead. He thought back on summers like this one spent collecting lightning bugs in a jar, a lantern that never pays off as well as a boy hopes. The streetlamp might as well be lightning bugs, he thought, and the moths buzzed and bounced into the light that beckons and burns.
He went to the pole and leaned, staring at his worn sneakers. Choosing the right way was the only question. His heart sank into his depths, a dark abyss of sorrow
s. Part of me is somewhere else, he thought. He asked why he was abandoned, why he was denied the love that he so longed for. With a sigh he knew there was nothing for him to do, nothing anybody could do, and he resigned himself to the designs or whims of the fates. As if contemplating something deeper than thought, he murmured to himself, “Divine suicide.”
Two pinpricks of light appeared in the distance.
Mack wondered what Poncey was doing at that moment. Was he thinking about him? He was probably still mad. He thought about his mother, and wondered why she dragged him around to every new city if she disliked him so much. Alone in the dark, he longed for the pain of her attentions. He wondered who his father was. He wondered why love always fails, beauty always dies, and why he always felt like he had a hole in his chest. He noticed the headlights headed into town.
The car was going fast. With the streets empty and no traffic signals to intervene, it would blast right through. Mack’s eyes attached to the light, mesmerized by its promise. It cruised along as the highway transformed into Main Street, and Mack stood on the curb, timing his route like an outfielder ready to catch a fly.
He could hear the car now, and it bore down upon him. He and the headlights exchanged stares and became one. He stepped out into the street.
A sudden explosion jarred Mack, shocked him into awareness. The car careened off its path and plowed into the lamppost that he’d just been leaning against. The vehicle met the timber with a blunt percussion of sound, and a jangle of metal and glass burst into the air, pieces of the car skittering across the street. A slow release of steam whistled from under the hood as Mack stood there, frozen by astonished puzzlement.
The driver stumbled from his door, a man in a tie, his neck fat pushed up by his collar, dazed but otherwise unhurt. “Blowout!” he yelled, and looked at his front tire, torn and flat. “That was some kinda damn miracle! Jus’ a damn miracle!” he blustered, and gaped at Mack. “What’s the matter with you anyway, kid? Steppin’ out in front of me like that! You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”
Mack shifted uncomfortably. “Uh – sorry,” he said. “My – my mistake.”
The boat sat upon the still waters, and the air surrounded it on every side, but the wind lifted not a finger.
