Vernon God Little (33 page)

Guards secure me to the gurney using thick cowhide straps with metal buckles, then the orderly raises a vein in my arm, and gives me a tiny shot, of anesthetic I guess. He fixes a long needle onto a tube that runs through the wall from the back room. I look away as he slides the needle into my vein. After a moment, cool solution begins to flow.

An usherette appears behind the glass that separates me from the witness area, and people start filing into their seats. Fragile Mrs Speltz is the only person I recognize. Aside from the wave of sadness I get from her haunted eyes, I actually feel relieved that she’s the highlight of the witness area. Nothing in there suggests I’ll be missing any parties when I’m gone. Then, just as I’m thinking that, the darnedest thing happens: a tall, beautiful young woman in a pale blue suit squeezes along the back row to her seat, kindling my groin out of retirement. Even the guards turn to watch as she sits, modestly tugging down the hem of her skirt. Then she looks at me. It’s Ella Bouchard. Boy did her equipment arrive. Bluebonnet eyes call to me through the glass.

‘Sailing’ starts to play now, because when Fate opens up, it opens up with both barrels. I try to swallow, but my mouth is woody. A terminal learning comes to me: that for all the sirens, game-show buzzers, and drum-rolls of life, it is the nature of men to die quietly. I mean, what kind of life was that? - a bunch of movies, and people talking about movies, and shows about people talking about movies. Still, I guess I asked for it. By being negative, destructive. I remember once calling my daddy to collect me from a place, but was sad when he came because I’d since grown to love the place. Death takes me like that.

I feel an itch around the needle, and close my eyes. Voices in the chamber soften, and I feel myself slipping away, up and over the gurney, into a reverie. I look down on myself, but instead of panic, instead of sudden death, I float out of the chamber, and over the landscape outside, where my senses are filled with the scent of lawn-clippings. I’m transported, clear as day, back home to Beulah Drive. There’s Mrs Porter’s, and there’s my front yard. It’s today, it’s right now. The mantis pumpjack beats with my soul as a black Mercedes-Benz sweeps into my driveway. Mrs Lechuga’s drape twitches. Mom ain’t home this evening, which is unusual. She’s eating out with Pam. I watch Lally climb out of the car. Bless the motherfucker to hell. Bless his bones smashed and stuffed through the ligaments of his puking fucked eyes, bless his mouth to suck me off, take my bile so it kills him dead to a place where he stays conscious and fucken broken and cold, shivering fucken worms and slime from organs that pop and fucken waste as I laugh.

He seems excited by the want I granted. I know the question of the second firearm always plagued him. He lets himself into the house through the kitchen, and moves to my bedroom closet, where he finds the shoebox containing the padlock key, just like I told him. Next to it lays a bottle of ginseng. You can’t even see the LSD pearls I stuffed in it all those moons ago. He smiles, and picks it up.

An unmistakable sound draws me back out of the house. It’s the Eldorado, idling up the street. For the first time in Leona’s life, she parks at the unfashionable end of Beulah Drive. Neither she nor George or Betty talk, or adjust their make-up. They don’t even breathe. They sit parked under a willow and wait. Nobody, but nobody, overrides Nancie Lechuga’s instructions. I watch with the ladies as Lally climbs into his car and drives away. They follow at a discreet distance. Mrs Lechuga’s drapes twitch shut behind them. She’s back in charge of the brigade, bless her.

Mom and Pam are fretting over the chicken by now, as Muzak boils the life out of some ole song. A two-inch pile of napkins sits soggy with their tears, under a sprinkling of salt and crumbs. I’m touched that my spirit is with them, just like the ole days, when hanging out together was like playing a favorite ole disc, reliving the tickles you got when you first heard it. Neither Pam nor my mom is saying anything relevant, that’s the beauty of it. I don’t know if it’s on purpose, or if it’s like a genetic kind of thing that folk just cruise into comfortable, meaningless ole routines when the shit hits the fan.

Mom just says, ‘Well but they’ve moved things around since last time.’

Pam says, ‘Lord, you’re right, the cashier used to be over there.’

All I can say is they must’ve moved it in about five seconds, for the time these gals spend out of the joint. But where’s Vaine? She’s usually so punctual when it comes to chicken.

I race like a breeze over my ole stomping grounds, through Crockett Park towards Keeter’s. Lally can’t help chuckling when he reaches Keeter’s corner. He can’t stop laughing as he bounces up the track, and he’s positively howling by the time the den comes into view, as the elephant dose of hallucinogens starts to warp his perception. His last steady action is to fit the key into the den padlock, pull back the hatch, and haul out my daddy’s rifle. My ole lady bequeathed me that rifle, on condition I never bring it near the house. I had to act fast the day Daddy disappeared. Mom was real antsy. She got over it by shopping for garden furniture - go figure.

Thunder from an approaching helicopter nudges the acid in Lally’s bloodstream to a peak. The vista starts to liquefy before his eyes. He’s a drug-crazed, homicidal maniac, loose in our community. He turns his back on sunlight beaming low over the escarpment, only to find a spotlight pinning him from the other side.

‘Drop it!’ barks a voice. It’s Vaine with her SWAT team. She shields her eyes against dust from the settling chopper.

Lally reels in a wild circle, confused, caressing the rifle, erasing Mom’s fingerprints, and her worries, forever. As Taylor Figueroa ducks out of the helicopter with a news cameraman, Lally raises the rifle and cries in an unearthly tone. ‘Ma-mi,’ he bawls, finding the trigger with both hands. ‘Mamá!’

Watch out Taylor, like - oh my God!

‘Open fire!’ Vaine screams to her team.

Lally’s face is a mask I fucken adore, suspended in time forever as slugs whistle and pierce the evening sky. He dances mid-air as chunks of his body pelt down like rain, before the bulk of him thuds twitching to the ground. Leona Dunt’s Eldorado has to swerve off the track to avoid him.

‘Wow, but is it supposed to be hidden, like - in the shit?’ asks Leona, pouring out of the car in a cloud of tobacco smoke.

‘I think Nancie means the story about the shit is what’s valuable,’ coughs Betty, ashing a cigarette into the dust. ‘Just the evidence of the shit, the story rights …’

‘Honey,’ says George, ‘a bonanza is a bonanza, whether it’s in or on or about the shit, now hand me that flashlight …’

‘Golly,’ says Betty, scraping through the bushes around my den. ‘Looks like somebody’s been here already …’

My vision dissolves, my mind shimmers back to the gurney and I find myself still alive, teeth clenched into a smile. That’s some fucken anesthetic, boy. I look over to see the guards nod to each other in readiness. As the day’s first thunder crackles outside, I turn to wink at Ella through the glass. Then I close my eyes. I wait for the deep to claim me, for the cool in my arm to turn icy, or not to turn at all, to just vanish through the glare with everything around, including lumpy ole asshole me.

Sailing

Takes me away

To where I’ve always heard it could be

Just a dream and the wind to carry me

And soon I will be free …

Suddenly, a cannonade of noise swells through the windows and cracks, down the stairs and ducts of the jail, a thousand voices and fists and feet triggered by some invisible cue. My eyes pop open to see if God, or the devil, has come to claim my slimy soul. Instead, Abdini bursts into the witness area, followed be a horde of cameramen. The whole jail must be watching it live on TV. Abdini has a dirty brown ball of paper in one hand, and a melted candle in the other. He holds them up to the glass, singing, jumping. It’s Nuckles’s notes, the ones I used to wipe my ass that fateful day. ‘Test prove it!’ he cries.

A phone rings out back. After a moment I crane to see Jonesy toddle into the chamber, shaking his head. He leans over the end of the gurney, cups his hands to his mouth.

‘Little - your pardon came through.’

twenty-seven

The ladies study the envelope like it was the body of a dead baby.

‘Definitely one of those Italian cars, a Romeo and Juliet or whatever,’ says George.

‘I know,’ says Betty, ‘but why send the brochure to Doris’s?’

‘Honey, it doesn’t say Doris on the front, it says Leona. Just the address is Doris’s.’

‘But why?’

George shakes her head. ‘Loni wants us to know she’s getting one of those sports cars, I guess.’

Betty tightens her lips, and tuts awhile. ‘I know, but why doesn’t she just come over, like always, or even just call? Maybe she went to have the implants after all …’

George blows a plume of smoke, finishing with a ring that travels up and over the Central-Vac box on the rug. ‘Betty, don’t piss me off, okay? You know damn well why.’

‘Oh Lord,’ scowls Betty. ‘But that’s her ex-ex-husband, the tragedy was nothing to do with her …’

George rolls her eyes. ‘I know, I know, but some people might question the quality of a marriage that left a man chasing teenage boys for kicks - you have to admit that’s out there even for Marion Nuckles, never mind the phony shrink he hooked up with. And goddammit to hell, Betty, now you’ve got me saying “I know.”’

‘I know.’

George clicks her teeth. Then their eyes meet, and they start to froth with helpless laughter.

‘Girls, it’s here!’ calls Mom through the kitchen. ‘It’s the side-by-side!’ She tries to keep her mouth pointed down, in mourning for Lally, but her eyes give her away. My ole lady just loves being in mourning. It’s one of her needs, I guess. Bent ole kitten.

I hear Brad hollering up the hall, so I slink into the kitchen where a pile of media paperwork sits on the bench, along with some contracts from my agent. On top of the pile is a faxed cover of next week’s Time magazine - the headline reads: ‘Stool’s Out!’ The picture shows the dried remains of my crap, wrapped in Nuckles’s class papers, sitting in a scientific laboratory. Behind it, Abdini proudly holds up the note Jesus left in the den, for Nuckles and Goosens, the lovers and internet entrepreneurs. ‘You sed it was love you batsards,’ reads the note, in his ole baby scribble. My eyes drop for Jesus. One thing, though: his note inadvertently granted a big ole want for Nuckles and Goosens. Now they’ll have all the boys they could wish for, up there in prison. Somehow you sense they might be doing a little more receiving than giving, though. But hell. As Nuckles himself would say - ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

Farther along the kitchen bench lies a copy of today’s paper, with the headline: ‘Old Familiar Feces.’ The picture shows Leona out at Keeter’s, holding lumps of shit in her hands. Farther down still is an article about Taylor. She’ll be fine. Just maybe not filling her panties the way she used to. Maybe they can implant a silicon butt-cheek or something, who knows?

Mom bunts me over the porch and down to the wishing bench, where the man from the morgue hovers. ‘Let me shake your hand, son,’ he says, ‘your daddy would’ve been mighty proud.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, breathing in the clear blue day.

‘Yessir, that was some turnaround. What’s your secret?’

‘I went down on my knees and prayed, sir.’

‘Mighty fine,’ he says, turning to Mom. ‘And ma’am - I think we can process that earlier insurance matter just now - the body clearly can’t be found.’

‘Well thank you, Tuck,’ says Mom, running a hand over her wishing bench.

‘Mr Wilmer!’ calls George from the porch. ‘See what you can do for that poor woman in Nacogdoches …’

‘Be my pleasure, Mrs Porkorney - you take care now, y’hear?’

After he turns away, Mom frowns at the fridge box being wheeled up the driveway. She frowns extra-hard, not just on account of being a double widow, but because Leona taught her not to show too much joy over new goods. You have to pretend they don’t matter, that’s what she taught her, that and how to throw her head back when she laughs. Doesn’t fool me, though.

I lean over the bench and soak up Mom’s clammy warmth. When the ladies join us, Mrs Lechuga comes to her window across the street. She sends a little wave, and I realize who’s missing, for the full set of dice in my life - Palmyra. But, hey - I guess it ain’t every day you get to play pinball on Oprah.

‘Vern,’ says Betty, ‘Brad’s just desperate to show you his birthday present.’

I try to nod politely, but my eyes snag on some dappled pink flesh behind the willows up the street. It’s Ella with her suitcase. She wears a wool sweater over a loose cotton dress that swishes full of honey breeze. She grins when she sees me watching her. I told her I’d send a car, but she insisted on taking one last walk through town, crazy girl. Anyway, we’ll be back. Mexico ain’t so far.

‘Kurt, stay!’ Ole Mrs Porter bangs through her screen, and struggles down the lawn with a table full of knitted toys. Then, as I cross the driveway to meet Ella, Brad thumps onto the porch behind us.

‘B-ooom! Suck shit muthafucka!’

That better not be loaded,’ says Betty. ‘Bradley Pritchard! Don’t you point that thing, or it’ll go right back to the store!’

I ignore him by rubbing lips with Ella. Then we both turn to watch Mrs Porter stand her toys by the roadside. She’s setting up a fucken stall for chrissakes. We just swallow giggles.

‘Ma’am,’ I call over the road. ‘Mrs Porter!’

She cocks her head, in a kindly way, and flaps a little wave.

‘Everybody’s gone, Mrs Porter. Everything’s back to normal …’

THE END

Acknowledgements

Give me a spirit that on this life’s rough sea

Loves t’have his sails filled with a lusty wind,

Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack,

And his rapt ship run on her side so low

That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air.

George Chapman

Love to Katz for gently stitching and filling such fine new sails; to my parents and family for this taste for the sea; and to all whose faith opened space beneath a ragged keel.