tell you that the fact a man who was supposed to be buried two goddamn days ago is alive and breathing in a hospital bed tonight is a problem. Every single one of you knows that this is a big fucking problem. This is the type of mess that can’t be cleaned up, and there ain’t a goddamn thing any of us can do but sit back and wait for the story to unfold.
“So there’s two things that could happen. Right now as we speak, that cranked-out son of a bitch is laid up in a hospital bed unconscious with breathing machines doing most of the work to keep him tied to this world. Any minute that son of a bitch could flatline, and aside from a few John Laws trying to figure out what the fuck happened, we’d be in the clear. That’s one thing that could happen.
“The other thing that could happen is that those doctors could keep him alive for days, weeks, months even, and one day in a split second that son of a bitch could wake up and when the words finally settle in his mouth and get to tasting good, he might just have a story to tell. It’s that story that presents the problem. It’s that goddamn story that gets every single one of us locked up for the rest of our fucking lives. At my age and where I’m at in life, that’s the kind of thing that I just couldn’t let happen.” Daddy stopped for a second and stared at that pistol as he turned it back and forth in the light. “At my age, I reckon I’d just blow my fucking brains out in the trees somewhere and let the crows have a taste. But for y’all’s sake, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. For y’all’s sake, let’s hope that son of a bitch keels over.”
Daddy walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He laid the pistol on the tabletop and slid the bottle of bourbon into his chest. His dark hair was slicked and wetted with sweat, and his jaw seemed to flex with every beat of his heart. He pulled the cork and took a long swig, washed that rotgut around in his mouth for a moment, and swallowed. There wasn’t another word spoken. “Don’t You Take It Too Bad” bled into “Colorado Girl” on the Townes album, and when the song finished out, someone would have to turn to Side B.
Daddy was staring into the bottle and scratching away at the tabletop with the tip of the pistol when the Cabe brothers eased from the couch and snuck for the door. There still wasn’t a word said, and the final refrain sounded from the speakers as the screen door creaked closed. The final crackles and pops of blank album slid away under the needle and the arm rose, pushed off to the side, and fell into the cradle. Silence.
Daddy stood and walked calmly into his bedroom. After a few seconds, he came back out carrying a .22 pistol he used to put down hogs on days when a knife proved too much work. Daddy slid the long bull barrel down into the back of his sweatpants and headed out the front door.
I sat right there and didn’t move until I heard two short snaps like a cap gun echo from the yard. I got up and peered out of the window then. Daddy was walking back from the Cabe brothers’ pickup and the moonlight lit his bare chest blue in places where Irish skin still shone. The Walkers spread as he came through the yard, every hound moving as far back on its lead as it could to get away from him. The bullet hole and splash of color I’d been sure would spread wide open just a few short minutes before was certainly spread now. There was a mess that would need cleaning soon.
13.
In a perfect world we could’ve waited for a new moon to shroud us in secrecy. In a perfect world we could’ve buried those bodies in a place where we could dig them back up and move them when the time came. But it wasn’t a perfect world.
The blood had dried in the hours since those two shots of rimfire came across the lawn, but Daddy had wanted to wait. If it’d been me, I’d have moved those bodies before souls had time to flee. Then again, if it had been me, I don’t reckon I’d
“So there’s two things that could happen. Right now as we speak, that cranked-out son of a bitch is laid up in a hospital bed unconscious with breathing machines doing most of the work to keep him tied to this world. Any minute that son of a bitch could flatline, and aside from a few John Laws trying to figure out what the fuck happened, we’d be in the clear. That’s one thing that could happen.
“The other thing that could happen is that those doctors could keep him alive for days, weeks, months even, and one day in a split second that son of a bitch could wake up and when the words finally settle in his mouth and get to tasting good, he might just have a story to tell. It’s that story that presents the problem. It’s that goddamn story that gets every single one of us locked up for the rest of our fucking lives. At my age and where I’m at in life, that’s the kind of thing that I just couldn’t let happen.” Daddy stopped for a second and stared at that pistol as he turned it back and forth in the light. “At my age, I reckon I’d just blow my fucking brains out in the trees somewhere and let the crows have a taste. But for y’all’s sake, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. For y’all’s sake, let’s hope that son of a bitch keels over.”
Daddy walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He laid the pistol on the tabletop and slid the bottle of bourbon into his chest. His dark hair was slicked and wetted with sweat, and his jaw seemed to flex with every beat of his heart. He pulled the cork and took a long swig, washed that rotgut around in his mouth for a moment, and swallowed. There wasn’t another word spoken. “Don’t You Take It Too Bad” bled into “Colorado Girl” on the Townes album, and when the song finished out, someone would have to turn to Side B.
Daddy was staring into the bottle and scratching away at the tabletop with the tip of the pistol when the Cabe brothers eased from the couch and snuck for the door. There still wasn’t a word said, and the final refrain sounded from the speakers as the screen door creaked closed. The final crackles and pops of blank album slid away under the needle and the arm rose, pushed off to the side, and fell into the cradle. Silence.
Daddy stood and walked calmly into his bedroom. After a few seconds, he came back out carrying a .22 pistol he used to put down hogs on days when a knife proved too much work. Daddy slid the long bull barrel down into the back of his sweatpants and headed out the front door.
I sat right there and didn’t move until I heard two short snaps like a cap gun echo from the yard. I got up and peered out of the window then. Daddy was walking back from the Cabe brothers’ pickup and the moonlight lit his bare chest blue in places where Irish skin still shone. The Walkers spread as he came through the yard, every hound moving as far back on its lead as it could to get away from him. The bullet hole and splash of color I’d been sure would spread wide open just a few short minutes before was certainly spread now. There was a mess that would need cleaning soon.
13.
In a perfect world we could’ve waited for a new moon to shroud us in secrecy. In a perfect world we could’ve buried those bodies in a place where we could dig them back up and move them when the time came. But it wasn’t a perfect world.
The blood had dried in the hours since those two shots of rimfire came across the lawn, but Daddy had wanted to wait. If it’d been me, I’d have moved those bodies before souls had time to flee. Then again, if it had been me, I don’t reckon I’d
Similar Books
