A Swollen Red Sun (5 page)

They were slaves to crank, powerless to its illusions, and before Jackson knew it, they were smoking crank together. And then they were cooking it and selling it. Running with a hard-hitting crowd of convicts and bikers, caught up in a scheme delivering crank to Algoa, to a crowd that scared Jackson more than he let on.

But he just wanted dope
and was quick to follow their lead, with little regard where it took him.

Raylene took Highway A to Highway Y, but she never did go to Walmart. She turned past Hog Trough Road instead, and crossed a washed-out section of driveway toward the brand-new double-wide of his cousin, Earl Lee.

“Oh, God, that whore,” Fish said. Tight-jawed, teeth gritted. Knuckles bone white under clear pink skin.

Jackson, in his own small world, kept silent, with an indistinct awareness of his surroundings.

Fish found the prospect of his cousin and his wife outlandish. Earl Lee Ramsey was a car salesman who drove a six-cylinder Mustang with a siren glued to the dash. It belonged to the dealership, but he said it was his. He thought nobody knew.

But Fish knew. Knew his cousin Earl Lee was without credit, and whatever credit he did have was bad.
Early
, as they called him, was a volunteer firefighter when he wasn’t selling Fords, and though he
did
live on his own patch of land, in a brand-new double-wide, Early mostly lived off the government—and if his wife had been fool enough to run to him, well, then, fuck her. Early could have her.

But then Fish got to thinking. About the way Early had looked at her when they’d been together. Not that he didn’t look at all of them—at every woman—but the way he looked at her was different. There was something about the way his eyes hadn’t left her. How they followed her from room to room.

At the time, Fish hadn’t noticed, but now it was apparent. There’d been a hunger in the both of them that only the bonding of flesh could gratify.

Fish loosened his grip on the wheel, which was bending. Kept thinking. About the way she’d looked at him back. She’d smiled. Laughed at his jokes—and then there was Thanksgiving. They’d been drinking and snorting lines, and for one reason or another, his wife and the girl his cousin brought with him had flashed their tits.

It was a very good night, which they had all enjoyed. An evening filled with yard bird and crank. Holiday memories they would always cherish.

But the way Fish now remembered it was different. His wife had been behind it. He knew it. She had orchestrated all of it just for him. For Early. And the more Fish thought about that night, the more he thought about everything.

He smoked crank out of Jackson’s pipe and thought, until finally, Fish had come up with a plan to fix them both—especially the cousin. You
don’t steal from kin
, and his cousin should have known that. Some things weren’t worth the price you had to pay in the end—and this price was a bit on the steep side. Even if she was a whore.

Fish fell apart inside as he drove. He would be alone without her. His parents were gone. Everyone who had ever loved him was gone. Except Raylene. And by the looks of it, she was gone, too, though Fish was bound and determined to prevent that from happening.

Kenny Duane Fisher had gone by Fish for as long as he could remember. His mom called him Fish. Even his dad, when Fish was around, though Fish was sure he used worse names when he wasn’t.

They’d lived on the edge of town, by the county line. His mom cleaned houses, and his dad sold tires. His parents did their best to provide, but his old man had a way with the back of his hand that would find Fish beside his jaw.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love him, but that he didn’t know
how
to love him. That’s what his mom had said. But his mother said a lot of things, and Fish learned long ago what to believe and whatnot to, though it was not her fault and he knew it.

It was his father’s fault. Or it was God’s fault.

To this day, he didn’t know which. He didn’t know what to think or who to blame. But a part of him died in a hayfield back when they were kids. It was the last good year of his family’s life—because the Fishers shared a burden that was hard to let go of.

It was easier to forget.

Fish had a sister who died when she was six, but the family never talked about that. Some things were best unsaid; at least that’s what his mom had claimed—though for weeks after the funeral, she set Karla’s plate at the table, until Big Fish set her straight.

“She’s done in the ground, Mary Ann. What you’re doin’s just makin’ things worse.”

“But I miss her.”

Big Fish grunted with a nod of understanding and forked a load of beans in his mouth. Big Fish got to drinking after that, even more than he had before, and then the bottle became his family, and any quality of life they had previously known was gone.

Fish returned to his driveway. Lost in thought. Filled with pain and wired from meth. He would not permit Raylene to leave him. Or take his sons or their home—assuming the bank didn’t take it first. They were a half-year behind, and Bay Bank was threatening to reclaim. Fish swore he’d catch up, but Ms. Dixie made a habit of following through.

Fish would smoke crank and think about the ways he could turn things around. For weeks, he’d had a cooler full of product to sell, but that never happened. Now it was too late.

He thought about his wife and his cousin, and those thoughts birthed hurt, the deepest he had ever felt. It metastasized within him, until the hurt that became anger had become cancer, and it surged through his body like electricity, killing everything that lived inside.

Fish had known a lifetime of pain, but this cut was the deepest.
The perfect end to a miserable life.
He could hear his father say. When he closed his eyes, he could see his dad, working on their farm. Pall Mall between his lips and a cold one in his hand.

It was summertime. Dad was cutting hay on his old John Deere tractor. In the fields, making rounds. It was noon, and it was very hot. Wind a blanket of searing moisture.

Mom sent Little Sister to the field to fetch him. But Dad hadn’t seen her walking.

That year had been a good year for red clover. It grew freely and abundantly along the hillside. Pecan trees lined the field to the north and beyond. To the west, a wall of oak stood proudly. It gave shade that covered half the field, but not until late evening.

That was the summer red clover grew tall. Taller than the fences that sagged between old posts that ran up and down hillsides and through crooks and swags and fields and woodland. That hay was as tall as she was.

And then she had tripped, and he did not see her. Sun in his eyes.

The shriek could be heard clearly over the sound of the machinery.

He’d smashed the brake pedal with his foot and turned the key back. Cut the power to the PTO. Wanted to believe it was a stump he’d hit, but her screams cut as sharp as any razor.

Big Fish had jumped down and turned white. Could not move or breathe. He had run her small body through the haybine.

She was still alive, but she was silent. He could not move her. She’d been cut to pieces, one arm slashed off. Blood poured from her handless wrist onto the dirt.

Big Fish reached into the machine with his arms to hold her. He touched her and loved her and told her he was sorry.

When his wife ran out the door, she was screaming. But she stopped when she reached the gate and projectile-vomited in the yard. She was not the same woman after that day, and Big Fish was not the same man.

Once Little Sister became a memory, everything in their lives changed.

Dale Everett Banks stood at the edge of the garden and watched his son and daughter pick tomatoes. They had row after row of Big Boy and beefsteak and heirloom, Brandywine and Black Cherry and Boxcar Willie—three hundred plants that took two hours to pick, four days a week, but it kept Jake and Steph busy. Even young Grace did her part.

“Everyone has a job to do,” Jude said. It had been her mother’s saying, and the first time she’d used it had shocked her.
I have become my mother
, she told Banks, who laughed.
Well, then, I guess I’ve become my father
, he’d said. Then she laughed. Told Banks he’d been his father since the first day they’d met. She asked him if he still remembered.

“How could I forget?” he’d said. They’d been at a bar called the Blue Star, where Banks’s dad played music. It was a small place with smoke-stained walls and a beer-stained floor. His father was a drunk named Everett Roy Banks, and he’d played a mean banjo when he was sober, and a piss-poor banjo when he wasn’t.

But that night, he was abstemious and his playing was electric. It was a memorable performance if ever there had been one.

Banks sat down in a lawn chair and opened a beer and thought about life. Watched his children and his dog and his wife. Jake picked each tomato and gave it to Steph, who took it and blew her hair out of her face and set it
gently
in the box she carried.

Dale Banks was a family man—because that came first—and then he was a farmer and a deputy. But between those last two it was a close tie for second.

Jude was beside the house, on her knees, pulling weeds that threatened the daylilies in her flowerbed. She made a large pile, and Grace, their angel, filled her pink bucket and set it in her wagon and pulled it to the edge of the yard.

These were the moments Banks lived for. Moments that moved too quickly—and he knew it—so he watched these moments closely. Took the time to record those images in his mind. His kids had the life he’d always dreamed they would. They worked their small farm and had jobs to do and pets to feed. They had
responsibilities
. Something every kid that age should have, but didn’t.

Meat cooked on the grill of the fire pit. He’d built it as a project with the boy. The whole family helped out. Scoured roadsides and creek beds. Built a solid pit with chunky rocks and mortar and a fat chimney that billowed sweet smoke when the cedar chips burned to embers.

Banks walked to the pit and poured Natural Light on his steak. The meat seared and popped and deep fragrant whiffs blew from the chimney and filled the air with a succulent fog that engulfed the table.

The steaks smoked and sizzled and the aroma was deeply pleasant. It was suppertime. Almost dark.

Jake had homework to do and cows to feed.

Steph would go inside, disappear behind her laptop. Banks knew this and accepted it. She was growing, and he could see it. Getting older, and filling out her curves, curves that troubled Banks. But what could he do?

Banks just grinned and raised his can and took the final drink. His life was a blessing. His daughter would be in college soon, his son right behind her—or maybe he would go to tech school. Or maybe he would farm.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Banks
. Jake still had a few more years. He was still just a pup, and still trying to talk Banks out of his Bronco.
But, Dad, it’s perfect
, he said. Though Banks was not convinced.

“Your dad loves that old thing,” Jude told Jake. Which was true, Banks
did
love that old thing. It was built back in 1979, when they still made a car from steel. It was dented and dinged, but it was tough and strong and it started every time, as long as you pumped the gas pedal when you turned the key.

Jude went to clean up while the kids finished picking. Jake carried boxes to the garage, and Steph approached Banks. Lip out. “Daddy, this sucks,” she said.

Banks shrugged. Told her she didn’t know how good she had it.

“Girl, when I was your age—” He stopped himself abruptly. Thought about what Jude had said and didn’t know whether to stop talking altogether or to continue.

Steph rolled her eyes and finished his sentence and made the decision easy.

“Yeah, I know, Dad, I know. You picked tomatoes every single day—thousands of them—and green beans and potatoes.”

Banks put his arm around his daughter and squeezed her.

She squeezed him back.

“Guess I told you that one, huh?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “About a million times, Daddy.”

“A million and one,” Jake walked by and yelled.

Banks tossed his empty beer can at the boy, who sidestepped it.

“Damn, boy. With moves like that you shoulda played football.”

“Well, I was just sayin’.”

“Well, nobody asked you.”

His wife brought out plates and glasses and set them on the picnic table. Steph went inside for a jug of tea.

They sat down at the table and talked and prayed. Ate beef they’d raised, with vegetables they’d grown. It was a picture of a life he’d imagined twenty years ago, when he made Jude Camper his wife.

Being a deputy and having a farm, those were the things that mattered. Raising your children right. Teaching them and loving them.

Steph was texting while Jake dug a splinter from his finger with a pocketknife. Gracie was drinking juice and singing. Buster, their beagle, licked his lips as he walked up to Banks.

Banks, casually, and with a stealth that was surprising, dropped a small chunk of meat beside his foot for the dog to find—an act he had forbidden his children to do on numerous occasions.

When he looked up, Jude smiled and shook her head. She had caught him.

Banks grinned back and shrugged.

The guilt of what he’d done was subsiding.
Moments like this
,
he reminded himself. He thought about the duffel bag and the money. About the consequences and the fallout. But now his daughter could go to college. To a real school. And Jake would need a pickup soon. Jude could use a trip to Branson; she deserved it. The years since Grace was born had aged her.

But Jude smiled and worked hard and loved her children, and that’s what Banks loved most about her.

Goats clanked horns and fought in the pasture while Banks absorbed his family’s love.

The sky was pink and orange and cloudless as evening settled over the cabin.

The Dodge turned over, and Olen looked at Sandy in the passenger seat. She wagged her tail and licked the window. Most dogs rode in the bed of the truck, but not Sandy. She demanded
to ride up front with the old man, and the old man was happy to oblige.