Dirty White Boys (14 page)

“You stop that, Bud: No one has said such a thing, or even thought it, I would know. You-all ran into pure black evil, that’s all there is to it.”

But Bud didn’t think so. What percentage of his awareness had he lost in his little snit about almost getting caught? It came back to him;
that’s
what he’d been thinking about on the drive from the road to the farmhouse. Had he missed something? Car tracks, signs of disturbance, any of the little things, the signals a policeman has to be aware of, that might keep him alive? Had he gone out back, where they must have stashed Willard Jones’s stolen car? No, not Bud. Goddamn Bud was just sawing away on some other bullshit, about getting himself caught with his pants down. Open the door, and let in Mr. Lamar Pye, thank you very much. And Lamar did what Lamar would do, because that was Lamar: you only had to look at those glaring eyes or read the jacket about the long list of felonies and killings to know what Lamar was about.

A black vapor seemed to blow through his mind.

“I want to go to the funeral,” he finally said. “I have to do something for Ted.”

“Bud, they say—”

“I WANT TO GO!” he yelled in a violent husband’s voice that meant he wanted no discussion.

“It’s tomorrow,” Jen said.

“Go get a doctor, goddammit, Jen, do it!”

“Bud!”

“I have to go to that thing. It’s the last and only chance I’ll have to do right by him. That’s all there is to it.”

It was sunny, a fabulous day in April, and the oaks looked full and majestic against the flat and dusty plains of the Lawton Veteran’s Cemetery. The breeze rattled the leaves—so much shimmering green, all of it stirred by the persistent wind, that Oklahoma wind that seemed to wash over everything—amid the gray stones that stood over men who’d died because a bitch called duty had said so. Far off to the northwest stood Mount Scott, hardly a mountain but still the commanding elevation in the Wichitas: It was an ancient, dry old hill, bleak and stony.

Bud was so sunk into himself now he could hardly focus. The beauty of the place and the death of the place; he responded to it in an especially bitter way. Maybe it was the drugs. They had to keep him stoked to the gills or the pain would begin to build. But Bud was the sort of man, as Jen would tell you, who, when he sets his mind on a thing, that thing comes to pass. So Bud sat in the wheelchair as Jen pushed him along. He wore his dress hat, his dress uniform, and Ray-Bans because his eyes were hollow and blood-rimmed; seven small bandages were visible on his face and neck; under his shirt a single huge wrapping protected his hundreds of wounds, and on his legs still more of the smaller patches. He could walk if he had to, a slow step at a time, but for now this was all right.

What he felt more than anything was fatigue. Not pain, not anger, not regret: a ton of liquid lethargy. The air weighed too heavily upon his body. He wanted to sleep but he couldn’t sleep. He had no words for anybody. The glasses, sealing his eyes off, helped, but he had the enormous
urge to just lie down and go to sleep. Nothing seemed worth two cents anywhere in the world.

But he knew he had to be here somehow.

Jen and Jeff pushed him across the flatness. Up ahead, they could see a little draw where the last ceremony was beginning. Troopers from all fifty states and police representatives from nearly as many cities around the country had arrived. When these things happened it was amazing how many cops wanted to be part of it, to come by and say, there, brother, it’s all right. It could just as easily have been me. You did your best.

“Bud, you all right?” Jen asked.

He’d snapped at her twice as they were getting him dressed. He knew he was behaving badly in front of his son.

“Yes, I am fine,” he said. “I’m ready to go dancing, goddammit.”

“Dad,” said Jeff.

“I’m sorry, Jen,” he said. “Ain’t fit to sleep with the dogs today.”

That goddamned Lamar Pye running around free as a bird and poor Ted is going into the ground. Wasn’t right. Wasn’t no kind of right.

Now the anger seethed through him. He could live with the pain, but the anger was something else entirely. Could he live with that? He didn’t know.

Up ahead, he could see TV vans parked and handsome people in the artificial brightness of the camera lights standing apart from the milling crowd of law enforcement types. That irked him, too. He’d been watching the TV news. Seemed like Lamar and Odell Pye had become famous and poor old Ted was second-string. There had been long interviews with “miracle survivors” Bill and Mary Stepford and a hundred shots of the most famous oak tree in Oklahoma, the one behind which he and Ted had cowered while
Lamar and Odell had fired and advanced on them. There was footage of shotgun shells and pistol cases littering the ground, a night shot of the caravan of vehicles at the farm, the blue-and-red eggbeaters filling the darkness with their urgency, the medevac chopper rising to haul bloody Bud Pewtie to Comanche Memorial Shocktrauma, even a shot of poor shot-up Bud on the trundle being wheeled in from the roof to the emergency room. He looked dead as hell, face white, partially covered by a bloody sheet, one shoe off and one shoe on.

Jen pushed him through the crowd, which magically melted and stilled. Now and then a low “Howdy, Bud” rose, and Bud nodded to acknowledge. As the last of the crowd parted, Jen slid him into the front row where the big shots sat, Colonel Supenski in his dress blues, a man from the Governor’s Mansion standing in for a governor who couldn’t make it, two old people who had to be Ted’s grieving parents, Captain James, and at the end of the row, Holly.

If he had been seeing her for the first time, he’d have fallen in love with her all over again. She looked still and grave and almost numb; but her skin had blossomed somehow, as if it were dewy with moisture; she seemed as pale as a white rose, her eyes focused on nothing as she just sat there in a kind of solemn haze.

Told you I’d see you on the day we got off it
, he thought.
Another one of my damned lies
.

She felt him looking at her, and she smiled.

The smile blew him away.

He loved her smile. One of the best parts of their intimacy was the way they laughed so hard at each other’s strange jokes. They shared some kind of wavelength or something.

Holly rose and came over and smiled bravely at Jen and knelt down and touched his hand.

“How are you, old trooper?” she said.

“Holly, I tried so hard. Just couldn’t save him. They got us cold.”

“It’s okay, Bud.”

She rose and gave Jen a hug and then hugged Jeff before returning to her seat.

Bud had been through too many before. The details were all familiar, and only the tiniest, most meaningless deviations set this one apart from the others. A trooper honor guard consisting of one man each from Oklahoma, Arkansas, Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, and Missouri walked the casket from the hearse to the bier and set it down, and only one man was out of step by the end of the trek instead of the usual two. The casket was heavy, but they always were: just dead weight, after all. The elaborate business of the flag folding proceeded awkwardly because the team was newly united; but eventually they got it crushed into the tricorn shape, only stars showing, and the team leader presented it to Holly with a little salute.

Twenty yards off, the seven-man firing team fired three volleys, for a total of twenty-one; the volleys were ragged as they always were, and, in the vast space, the gunfire thin.

The worst moment was always taps. It didn’t matter if the bugler played it well or poorly, in tune or out; there was something in the mournful ache of the music, and how it spoke of men dying before their time for something they only vaguely understood and being only vaguely appreciated by the people on whose behalf they died, that made it hurt so much. Bud bit back a tear, feeling the blackness in him rise and rise yet again. He saw the puff of hair as the slug went in and Lamar unbending from the task with the blank eyes of a carpenter or a stonemason.

No words were said, beside an invocation by the minister. And then it was over, that fast. Holly was swept up and embraced and borne out. The troopers and cops began to file to their cars.

“Okay, Bud?” Jen wanted to know. “Or do you want to stay a bit.”

“No, let’s get out of here.”

Four days later, Bud was released from the hospital. At home, he lay there feeling slightly liberated. But in a bit the black vapor settled over him again, almost like a blanket that he could pull tight. Someone had warned him of this: post-stress syndrome, a bitch to get through, feelings of worthlessness and failure and bone-grinding fatigue. All right, so: I got it but good.

He chased Jen out and she slept in the living room. She never saw him cry; nobody had ever seen him cry and goddamned if he would start now with that shit. But he had a night when he cried and another night when he locked himself in the toilet and threw up bad. The doctor dropped by twice a day, and there was a long session with Colonel Supenski, a highway patrol shooting investigation team, and homicide investigators from the Murray County Sheriff’s Department and the county prosecutor’s office. Bud told it all to them, except his surliness over the near slip of being caught by Jen; they went over it doggedly, who was where when the shots came, this and that, like a slow-mo replay in a football game. Would Bud testify before a grand jury in order to get a true bill against Lamar? Bet your ass he would!

He tried not to think of Holly, but at night that came over him, too: the flash of the gun, the softness of her skin, the ugly powder burn melted into Ted’s skull, the tautness of her nipples, the grin on Lamar’s face as he pivoted with the
shotgun, the smoothness inside her thighs. One became the other: flash and explode, orangeness, pain, ecstasy, all of it crammed together. He yearned to call her. But he couldn’t.

On the fourth day, it was at last time to rise. He got himself up and slung on blue jeans, a starched white shirt with a point collar, a good pair of Tony Lama boots, brown with a black shaft. He threw a bolo tie, with a horse’s head on the clasp, around the shirt neck, tightened it up. He slid a Colt Commander with a Shooting Star magazine crammed with eight hollowtips into his waistband over his kidney, then pulled on a sports coat.

He lumbered down the steps, at first feeling woozy. But then he got the hang of it.

“Jen, I’ll be out a bit. Then I’ll stop at the hospital. Back before dark.”

She came from the kitchen and intercepted him at the front door. Her face was gray and remote and, as always, somewhat impassive, except for the glare in her eyes.

“You can hardly walk. Just what do you think you’re doing, Mister?”

“I feel I have to say something to that farmer.”

“Write him a letter or give him a call. That’s why they invented the telephone.”

“Without this old boy’s gumption, I’m in the ground and you’re the one they’re bringing the hot dishes to.”

“Send him a card. Bud, you still have steel in you. Suppose something breaks free and you start bleeding again. You could bleed to death.”

“If I was meant to bleed to death, I’d have done it with a thousand steel balls in me, not in my truck driving out to the country.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“The Commander.”

“Good. I don’t want you out in the world without some protection.”

“Didn’t do much good the last time,” he said, “but the theory sounds promising.”

Bud went to his truck, a blue Ford F250, climbed in, and stuck the key into the column switch, then paused. Christ, would there always be somebody pulling on him? Would it ever end?

Looking carefully left and right, he eased out the clutch and backed into the highway, then threw a bit of gravel as he accelerated. In seconds he came to a larger road and slipped into traffic behind a huge cattle carrier.

Bud worked his way through the gears in the heavy-duty four-speed, tugging the stick firmly, his feet light on the accelerator and clutch pedal. He loved the goddamned truck, he truly did.

But Bud didn’t drive straight out to the Stepfords’. With no conscious thought at all, he stopped at a convenience store and went to the pay phone. He dropped the quarter and dialed the number. It was just like the last time, in front of the diner, just that simple.

In time she answered.

“Howdy,” he said.

“Thank
God
you called,” Holly whispered. “Oh, Bud, I can’t talk now. The minister is here. He thinks he’s helping. Oh, lord, seeing you would help.”

“I been home and couldn’t call, you know. I’ve got something to do anyway. Can you meet me in Elgin, that diner, Ralph’s, I think it is, say about two this afternoon?”

“I’ll be there.”

Bud hung up and returned to the truck. The drive to the Stepfords’ passed without incident. On the way he drove by the diner where the waitress had mentioned Bill Stepford’s absence: Why hadn’t that set bells ringing?

Reason was, a policeman will knock on a thousand doors in a career, maybe a hundred thousand. Maybe a thousand policemen knocking on a hundred thousand doors over a twenty-year span will produce one Lamar Pye, waiting in the window with a semiauto shotgun, ready to blow them to hell and gone. The numbers say: Go ahead, knock on the door. Lamar was just the road accident that happens to other people and makes life interesting.

Bud now came to the mailbox and the road into the farm. He turned, headed down it. The same line of oak trees, the same just-turned wheat fields, the same eventual arrival at the house itself, a white clapboard structure with new rooms added every decade or so; the porch, the barn, the feeding pens, the mud, the hay. It all looked the same, except now the yard was much crisscrossed with tire tracks from the multitude of emergency and police vehicles.

And the tree. Bud looked at what for two or three days had been the most famous tree in Oklahoma and North Texas, where he and Ted had sought cover and from which he had fled to the cruiser to call for backup, not making it.

Bud parked where he’d parked before, the obvious place. It was now as it was then: still, green, just a farm. He had a bad moment where he didn’t want to get out. Am I ruined now? he wondered. No real fear for twenty-five years, but then I’ve never been hit in twenty-five years. Now, has this thing ruined me? Am I afraid to make the stop or knock on the door? His breath came in little spurts.