Excerpt
I FINISH MY BEER, CRUSH THE CAN OUT OF HABIT, AND TOSS IT onto the floor of my truck, where it hits the other cans with a small clang. From where Im parked, a sparkling stream of piss seems to be coming directly from the filthy blue roof of a yellow, pink-shuttered plastic playhouse, as if the structure itself is filled with liquid and has suddenly sprung a precise and artful leak.
I keep a watch on it as I take another bite of my ham-salad sandwich from the Valley Dairy and reach over to the glove compartment where I keep Vicodin and my revolver. I take out the pills and a folded piece of paper. An old high-school football team photo that Art, the owner of Brownies bar, took down from his wall of fame next to the mens room and gave to me and a road map fall out, along with a can of shaving cream and a folder filled with car accident reports.
The piece of paper is a fax from the state parole board. I open it and flatten it out on the seat beside me.
Reese Raynors grainy, black-and-white face stares up at me with the stale eyes of someone who thinks hes always being told something he already knows. His teeth are clamped shut, his top lip drawn back in a smirking snarl that I would probably find cartoonish in its attempt to intimidate if I didnt know him personally.
He has changed amazingly little during eighteen years in prison. Except for a paunchiness around his jowls and the loss of some of his hair, he could be the same kid I went to school with.
Beneath his mug shot is the standard information on the parolee, his crime, his sentence. The only item I care about is the release date and time: Tuesday, March 12, 8:00 A.M. Today is Sunday. Its 1:16 P.M., and Im late picking up Jolene to go to Zo Craigs funeral.
Next I glance at our old team photo in a needless exercise of confirmation: 1980 Centresburg Flames. AA District Champions. One game shy of a state title. Myself in the front row: I. Zoschenko, cocaptain. Reese in the back row, on the far end, with his stare like two grimy nickels. Beside him his twin brother, Jess, the other cocaptain, his eyes glazed with the determined numbness of someone forced to share a bus seat with a ticking bomb.
A few weeks after the photo was taken, Reese was kicked off the team. Most of the guys couldnt believe he lasted as long as he did. He rarely attended practice. He never opened a playbook. He stalked off in disgust each time Coach Deets wheeled the blackboard into the locker room. For Reese every defensive play began and ended with the simple wisdom A crippled man cannot score.
But Deets let all that slide. He wouldve let Genghis Khan play for us if he could block, and Reese could block. He had no finesse or speed, and a very limited understanding of the rules and objectives of the game, but no one could get past him.
What finally made Deets give him the boot was his performance off the field. The day after a gameeven the games we wonmembers of the opposing team would find the headlights on their trucks bashed in, or all the windows on their houses blackened with dog shit, or a younger sister deposited on the front yard, drunk and deflowered.
Deets would have tolerated that, too, but the other teams had a problem with it.
I put the photo back in the glove compartment and unfold my deputys map: a highly detailed blowup of the county. Ive traced what I think will be Reeses path, highlighting all the bars along the way and making a looping detour near Altoona to accommodate a trip to The Tail Pipe, a favored strip joint in the area.
Im assuming hell head to Jesss house. He doesnt get along with his parents, and the rest of his family in the area is made up of sisters who are married to men who wont let him come near their homes. He and Jess were the oldest and the only boys in Chimp Raynors tribe of pale, lip- licking girls with dark stares like cloaks who never spoke unless spoken to and never walked down the middle of a hallway. The two brothers were the meat of the family; the girls were the drippings.
My job has brought me to the home of one of the sisters. Shes married with kids now. Her mother is on the premises as well, the ominous incubator of Jess and Reese. Shes hiding in the gunshot-riddled Buick in the driveway.
I get out of my truck and close the door softly, trying to be quiet, and take a few careful steps up the driveway, but my boots crunch over the windshield glass sprayed everywhere. As the pisser comes into view, he turns to look at me but keeps himself aimed in the same direction, continuing to make an impressive arc over his wifes peacock green gazing ball and her lawn goose prematurely dressed for Easter in a bunny costume theyre already selling out at the mall.
I see his gun leaning against the playhouse where he put it while his hands are otherwise occupied. A Winchester twelve-gauge. Chuck, our dispatcher, didnt say anything about its being a shotgun, but his wife probably didnt think to specify when she called. I reach into my pocket for a roll of Certs and pop one in my mouth to mask the scent of beer.
The mans face doesnt register any definable emotion or even recognition upon seeing me, but he raises a hand in greeting.
The gesture causes him to lurch slightly to one side as hes drying up to a trickle, and the goose and ball get spattered. I glance toward the front window of the house and see Bethany Raynor, now Bethany Blystone, and her two little girls peering through the curtains. She turns livid when she sees her goose get hit.
I take a few more steps toward him, passing by the car. Inside, his mother-in-law is hunkered down as far as she can go on the floor. There are fragments of glass in her teased, gray hair that look almost decorative when she cranes her neck up toward me out of the shadows and a plank of daylight falls across her face. The seat above her has been ripped open by the shotgun blasts.
Are you all right? I ask her.
Shes trembling, but shes remarkably calm considering the circumstances. Forty-five years of marriage to Chimp have probably taught her to dole out hysteria sparingly. She manages to nod, then whispers to me, Why are you all dressed up?
She works at the Kwik-Fill on the north side of Centresburg where I buy my gas, and she always sees me in a deputys shirt.
Funeral, I whisper back.
Zo Craigs? she asks.
I nod.
I saw her obituary in the paper, she goes on. It was almost as big as Elizabeth Taylors.
Im pretty sure Elizabeth Taylor is still alive.
Oh, you know who I mean. The other one.
I look in Ricks direction again. He has a slight sway to him now.
Right, I say. I loved that movie she did. You know the one.
She nods again.
Jess did Zos mowing. Did you know that? She has a real nice John Deere tractor. He loves that tractor.
I better go talk to Rick, I tell her. You stay put.
I take a deep breath and start walking toward him. Theres a strong smell of wet dirt beneath the acrid carbide smell still lingering around his gun and the stench of alcohol wafting off him. Im not close enough to smell yet, but I swear I can see it hanging around him the way heat in the summertime makes the air ripple.
The dirt smell makes me think about Zos impending funeral and the freshly dug plot thats waiting for her in the J&P cemetery next to her long-dead husband, one of the ninety-seven men who died in Gertie.
How ya doing, Rick? I call out amiably.
He fixes a glassy stare on me.
I move closer but still keep a fair distance away from him so I dont panic him. I have two objectives at this point: get hold of the shotgun and save the lawn ornaments from any future urination.
I motion at him to move toward me.
Why dont you bring it over here, Rick? Your kids play around there, dont they?
Hes staring at me trying to place me, not in the present but in the past where most of us like to keep each other now that weve seen the future.
He finally drops his gaze and looks forlornly at the puddle he created next to an overturned doll stroller with a stuffed animal strapped inside it.
With his back toward me, I move quickly to the playhouse and pick up the shotgun.
He doesnt turn around. He raises his head and stares at the land behind his house beyond his yard.
The morning rain has stopped, and the sun is trying to make its presence known by shining dimly behind the wall of gray clouds that meets the rim of lavender-smudged hills with the finality of a lid. The weathers been pretty good lately. Its a shame it couldnt have been a little drier today. I know that wherever Zos practical soul is right now, it will be upset over the thought of all the good shoes that are going to get caked with mud and the time spent cleaning them afterward.
Ivan? Ivan Z? Rick asks unsteadily, turning around to face me.
Yeah, Rick. Its me.
A smile ticks briefly at the corners of his mouth like a small spasm.
I heard you was back, but I didnt really believe it. Working for Jack, huh? Hows it going?
Okay. Hows it going with you?
We both glance at his house, where the two little girls are still pressed against the window, but Bethany has disappeared. Their stares dart back and forth between their dad and me and the car with the shattered windshield where their grandmother is hiding. It occurs to me that they might not know if shes living or dead.
Theyre closing Lorelei, Rick announces.
He stands in the middle of the yard and somehow manages to look uncomfortably stiff even though everything about him, from his dick hanging out of his jeans to his arms hanging at his sides to the drunken slackness of his unshaven cheeks, is limp.
So I heard.
I only got called back nine months ago. I was out of work for almost a year before that.
I hear the front door open and see Bethany, out of the corner of my eye, head for the car. She opens the door, and a sob catches in her throat. Her mother stumbles out, and they wrap their arms around each other. Rick watches them.
Theres only Marvella left now, he says, and its all longwall.
He shakes his head.
I dont want to do it again. I cant do it again. Being unemployed.
The two women are crying. He notices and points accusingly at them.
My mother-in-law has a steady job. Shes been working at that goddamned Kwik-Fill since the beginning of time. She used to sell Slim Jims to Ben Fucking Franklin.
We watch the women help each other into the house. Bethany shoots him another scathing look, this time directed at his exposed manhood.
And then theres Chimp. Worst miner ever lived. And he ends up working longer than anybody. Gets full retirement. Now hes even collecting black-lung benefits when nobody else can get them, and he doesnt even have it. You know he doesnt have it. Hes got that shit you get from smoking all the time. Whats it called? Empha-seeming?
Emphysema.
Yeah. Thats it. I swear, if he fell into a pile of shit, hed come up with a golden turd in his mouth.
I think back to high school and the few times I visited Jess at home. He and his family lived in a peeling, sagging shell of a farmhouse with a pack of spittle-flinging dogs roaming in and out of the propped-open front door and had a yard covered with so much junk it looked like the house had vomited its contents.
If there were such things as golden turds, Chimp obviously didnt know what to do with them once he found them.
Is that why you tried to kill your mother-in-law? I ask him, getting back to the topic at hand. Career envy?
I didnt try and kill her, he says.
He takes a few wobbling steps toward me, then stops suddenly like the ground has been yanked away.
I was shooting at the car, he says once he finds his balance again. I didnt want her to leave. Thats all. I knew she was going to drive straight back to her house and call every goddamned old lady in the tristate area and tell them what a loser I am. What a goddamned fucking loser I am! He screams it to the heavens.
The effort makes his knees buckle, and he drops onto the muddy grass. Once he hits, he starts crying. I dont know if its out of misery or because he got caught in his zipper. He puts himself back in his pants and brings his hands up to cover his face, knocking off his company ball cap with J&P COAL stitched in frayed, faded gold across the front. Losing his hat makes him cry harder.
I squat down in front of him, and my bad knee sings out in pain. Its been almost twenty years and six operations since my accident. I can walk pretty well, but I will never again be able to squat; however, something in my mind and body wont allow this fact to register, and Im still constantly attempting it the same way my mother continues to make mincemeat pies for Christmas every year, even though my dad was the only one in our family who liked them.
I put my hands on Ricks shoulders. He stops sobbing for a moment, and understanding briefly skates across his dull gaze.
You gonna arrest me? he asks.
Im going to take your gun for a while. Do you have any more in the house?
Two rifles.
Im going to take those, too.
I brace his shotgun against the ground and use it as a crutch to help me get back to a standing position.
Why dont you just stay here for a minute? I instruct him, needlessly.
Hes already fallen over, sprawled out on his stomach, with his eyes closed, mumbling to himself. I head for the house and knock on the front door.
Bethany answers. Shes not happy to see me even though shes the one who called and asked me to come here.
She stares at me, courteously defiant. Shes put on about sixty pounds of flesh and attitude since high school.
I try picturing her young self without the extra weight, with her hair feathered like Farrahs, wearing Chic jeans instead of the orange stretch pants shes wearing now, worn shiny at the knees, along with a voluminous thigh-length sweatshirt created by retailers for the sole purpose of concealing various types of female physical hell.
Hows your mother? I ask.
Shes fine. A little shaken up is all. Shes lying down.
Your husband says he wasnt trying to kill her. He was trying to prevent her from leaving.
Yeah, she says. I told her to just sit down and let him cool off, but she had a hair appointment. Now shes missed it anyway.
Behind her is a room that belongs to a woman who doesnt put housekeeping high on her list of things to do. Toys, laundry, stacks of unopened mail, dirty dishes, and miscellaneous fragments of day-to-day life surround the two little girls sitting in a patch of cleared carpet watching TV and eating Mootown Snackers. They dip their pretzel sticks into their portions of cheese spread at the exact same moment and bring them hypnotically to their mouths.
Has he ever done anything like this before? I ask her.
No.
Violent outbursts of any kind? Toward you? Toward the children?
He throws things at the TV sometimes, but he dont hit us.
Does he drink a lot?
Not more than anybody else.
Her stare doesnt waver.
Are you going to arrest him? she asks me.
Do you want me to?
Thats a strange question.
Im off duty, and I have a headache, I explain.
You want an aspirin?
No, thanks.
She drops her eyes away from mine for the first time and looks down at my jeans and mud- caked Caterpillar work boots, then takes in my black dress shirt, black sport jacket, and the tie I borrowed from Dr. Ed that he pulled out of a filing-cabinet drawer and tossed to me while telling me not to worry about the stain. It wasnt blood, it was gravy, and no one would notice it because it blends in well with the pattern of migrating ducks.
Why didnt they send an on-duty deputy? she asks suspiciously.
I was easier to find. Look, if your mother wants to press charges, Ill be happy to take him back to town with me.
He did commit a crime, didnt he?
Well, yes. Shooting at a person with a twelve-gauge shotgun is always considered a crime in the state of Pennsylvania, even if the person shot at is the perpetrators mother-in-law. Unless of course its mother-in-law season, I add, smiling.
She doesnt smile back.
Okay, I try another tack. Heres what will happen if I arrest him: Ill take him to jail. Hell stay there until hes arraigned, and then youre going to have to drive into town and post bond and give him a ride back home. Even if your mother doesnt want to press charges, the state will. You wont have to testify because youre his wife, but your mother will. Shell have to take time off work to do it. She could end up having to take off several days, maybe even a week, without pay. If you retain your own attorney, youre looking at thousands of dollars. At the very least, youre going to end up paying a considerable fine and court costs. He might get jail time, which will go on his permanent record and make it difficult for him to find future employment once hes released.
We cant afford that, she answers.
I nod.
How about for now Ill just take the guns? He said he has a couple rifles.
She doesnt hesitate. She leaves the room immediately, wanting to get this all over with. On her way past the girls, she nudges one in the kidneys with her foot and tells her to go load the dishwasher.
She returns quickly, carrying two rifles: another Winchester and a Remington .30-06, the same make and model Val used to hunt with.
I take the Remington and raise it to shoulder height like I always do when Im around one. This one has a nice high-powered scope. I look into it, aiming through the front window at Rick, passed out in a muddy yard next to a goose dressed like a rabbit.
I start aiming at things in the house. Pictures on the walls. Empty beer cans on the coffee table. I come to a stationary exercise bike in a corner draped with towels and T-shirts and Christmas twinkle lights.
Bethany Blystone is staring at me with embarrassed rage. I slowly lower the gun and clear my throat.
You used to be a Raynor, didnt you?
She walks to the front door. I sense Im supposed to follow. She holds open the door.
Im still a Raynor. That dont change just because my name did.
Are you aware that Reese is being released on Tuesday?
She says nothing.
Have you had any contact with him recently?
Why do you want to know?
Id like to keep an eye on him so I can help out if he encounters any difficulties making the transition to life outside prison.
You mean you want to harass him?
Something like that.
I step outside, and she stands in the doorway staring at me uncertainly. A shadow of her former skinny, frightened self passes over her, the self that used to live in the same house with Reese.
Hell go to Jess, she announces, and shuts the door on me.
Back at my truck, I unlock my footlocker and put Ricks guns inside with a half dozen others.
I grab a blanket and go check on him a final time. Hes unconscious, but hes on his stomach so he wont choke to death if he throws up. I cover him. I dont know how long hell be out here.
The little girl who was nudged in the kidneys comes walking over. Shes not wearing a coat or shoes. She has a football with her and a Sharpie permanent marker in her hand.
Hes fine, I assure her.
She doesnt even glance at him.
You should go in the house before you catch cold, I tell her.
She holds out the ball and marker to me.
Mom wants to know if youd give us your autograph. She says it would mean a lot to Dad.
The request is delivered as two separate statements. Theres no asking involved.
I take the ball from her and take the lid off the marker.
You got any stickers? she asks me.
What?
Stickers, she repeats. Dr. Ed always brings stickers.
Does Dr. Ed come here a lot? I ask.
When Daddy loses his job, he gives us our shots here instead of us going there. I dont know why.
I know why, but I dont explain to her that when Daddy loses his job, he also loses his benefits. Dr. Ed wont accept lack of an insurance card or any other reason people give him for not bringing their kids in for their vaccinations. If they wont come to him, he goes to them.
I finish signing the ball and hand it to the girl. She puts it up against her face. At first I think she does it so she can read it, but its because she wants to smell the ink.
I search my pockets for something to give her. I wish I had something pretty, but all I come up with is the half-eaten roll of Certs and the rabbits foot Val made for me before he left for Vietnam. I give her the mints.
She takes them and gives me a shrug. Theres gratitude in the jerk of her shoulders. Its enough. I know that this girl could never say thanks. It would imply that I had done something for her.
I get back in my truck and watch her trudge over to the doll stroller. Im going to wait until shes safely back inside the house, even though Im not sure exactly how safe that is.
In the meantime I finish eating my sandwich while reading the bumper stickers people and local businesses have given me over the past eight months since Ive been back that I have plastered on my dashboard: OLD HUNTERS NEVER MISS, THEY JUST LOSE THEIR BANG. MCCREADY SEPTIC SYSTEMS: THIS JOB SUCKS. MY WIFE, YES. MY DOG, MAYBE. MY GUN, NEVER. WELDERS HAVE THE HOTTEST RODS. PUFF N SNUFF FOR ALL YOUR TOBACCO NEEDS. DIAL 911: MAKE A COP COME.
One is from the Salt Lick Motel. The word Salt has been worn away completely. In my boredom Ive peeled away some of the other letters. It now reads LICK M E. My six-year-old nephew, Eb, gets a real kick out of this.