Normal

by Scott J. Holliday

  Roy twisted hard before pulling back the pole. The gator thrashed for a second and then stopped. Its claws relaxed and opened.

  Roy cut the rope that anchored the skiff. He pushed away from the bank. The slow current began to carry him downriver. He rolled to his back and looked up at the sun. He sucked heavy breaths of the sulfuric swamp air. His lungs felt like fire. He untied his father’s knife, discarded the cypress pole, and held the blade flat against his chest.

  10

  Paul pulled a pair of old, square-toed boots on to his aching feet. Walking several miles barefoot and nearly naked from the dead cart left him limping with blisters. He felt fortunate that most of his walk had been after dusk, else this morning he’d be sunburned top to bottom. He worked his jaw and pain shot down his neck, emanating from the point where Roy had apparently punched him. He took an old hat, waistcoat, and duster from his closet and put on a new shirt, pants, and belt. He hefted a new coin bag to test its weight before dropping it into the hat, which he deftly slid on to his head.

  He looked at his reflection in the glass shadow box nailed to the wall. The box contained the ornate Colt Dragoon revolver his father-in-law had given him on his wedding day. The piece was beautiful, and in the shadow box, useless. In the top dresser drawer were the black-powder cap and ball setups Paul had purchased separately from the gun.

  “Don’t you dare,” Gloria Constantine said.

  Paul’s wife stood in their bedroom doorway with one arm wrapped around her mid-section, her hand cupping her thin frame at the waist. Though the morning sun was barely shedding light, her other hand already held a whiskey tumbler, two fingers full. Likely another blackout was on its way.

  As a young woman, Gloria’s face had been full of laughter and light. Now Paul could only see traces of that young face beneath her grim resolution. It was the same look she wore in the weeks that led up to their daughter’s stillbirth. The baby had stopped kicking in her belly, and although the midwife was certain the child had been lost, Gloria was determined. At home she talked to the dead daughter inside her, sang to her, and asked Paul to lay his head down and listen for the girl’s heartbeat. Paul obliged, placing his left ear down against his wife’s belly.

  He heard his wife’s sniffles in his open ear, but only silence on the other side.

  Last night Paul had told Gloria of what happened with Roy, referring to him as the prisoner during the story. He also told her of Roy’s skin. He didn’t mention their childhood friendship, and never had before.

  She was as drunk then as she would soon be, and she had laughed at his story, chiding him for being too weak to contain a mere animal.

  He told her he’d go after the prisoner and bring him back. It was either that or lose his job.

  “You don’t need that job, anyway,” she said, “you should be clerking for my father.”

  Paul’s father-in-law, Delmont Graves, was a prominent local attorney. Working for such a man would reduce Paul to brewing coffee and sweeping up around the office. But there would be hope; if he were a good boy, and he worked real hard for five short years, he could ascend to taking dictations. However, these things were not at the heart of the reason why Paul refused the job. As a prison guard he could work odd shifts—afternoons, overnights, and doubles—which meant he could be there for his son when his wife couldn’t, or more appropriately, when she wouldn’t. The job paid far less than what Paul felt he was worth, but point in fact the boy needed someone to look after him.

  “My daddy gave you that gun,” Gloria said. “It’ll be over his dead body you use it to hunt down some freak.” She spat the last word out like poison, and then took a drink. Paul couldn’t remember the last time she winced at the liquor’s harshness.

  “What else would you have me do?” Paul said.

  “It doesn’t matter what you do.” She looked away from him. “You’re good for nothing. Always will be.”

  The last time he reached for her she recoiled from him, and he’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t been relieved. She’d become skeletal and unattractive. Not fit, in body or mind. He looked past her now, through the doorway and down the hall. Their son, Jacob, leaned against a doorjamb. His eyes were remarkably big and blue, just like Paul’s father’s had been. The boy’s little hand gripped the doorjamb hard, turning the tips of his fingers white.

  “You loved me once,” Paul said, speaking to Gloria but keeping his eyes on his son.

  When no reply came he looked at her.

  A shelf of tears had appeared on her lower eyelids. Her tightened lips had gone as white as her son’s fingers.

  “I did,” she said.

  “Ask me and I’ll stay.”

  Gloria gave him her eyes for a moment, then she looked away again. “Don’t bend your honor for me.”

  “Honor is nothing without love.”

  Gloria finished the whiskey in her glass. “Take him to my father when you go.” She started out of the room.

  Paul smashed the shadow box.

  Gloria paused in the doorway. Down the hallway Jacob flinched, his face took on confusion.

  Gloria looked back over her shoulder. Her cliffhanging tears had spilled down over her cheeks. She left the room, passing her son without notice.

  Paul holstered the ornate gun and grabbed the gear from the top drawer. Jacob ran to meet his father in the bedroom doorway. He was still confused, seemingly ready to cry.

  “Shhh,” Paul said. He picked Jacob up and carried him out to the porch and down the steps. He tickled Jacob’s exposed calf as he walked the dirt path from their small home to the road.

  Jacob whimpered. He allowed the beginnings of a smile. “Where we going, daddy?”

  “Pop-pop’s house,” Paul said.

  “Pop-pop’s house!” Jacob echoed, throwing a triumphant fist in the air.

  Delmont Graves sat on his front porch smoking an ivory pipe. One leg was crossed over the other in a relaxed fashion reserved for women and men of station. A newspaper sat on a marble-topped end table, held down by a thick tumbler halfway emptied of rare bourbon. His waistcoat was silken and his beard was long, but trimmed to perfection over a black bowtie, which he wore despite the fact that it was Tuesday, his weekly day off.

  From a distance Paul could smell the pipe’s smoky aroma—Jamestown vanilla. The scent would be pleasant, if not for consideration of the smoker. Jacob squirmed and kicked in Paul’s arms, itching to go to his grandfather. Paul set the boy down.

  “Pop-pop!” Jacob said, scampering away.

  Delmont Graves set down his pipe. He rose from his chair as the boy approached, and was standing just in time for Jacob to slam into his leg and grip tightly. One hand came down on the boy’s head to tousle his hair. Apart from an array of gifts, this was the extent of the man’s affection.

  Paul walked up the lane at a moderate pace. The tobacco scent intensified as he drew closer. His father-in-law’s house was well-built, albeit modest. It belied the depth of the man’s wealth. He’d made a name for himself expanding the claims of rich landowners in the area, bringing any greedy, white-collar criminal with a scant land claim to his doorstep. Graves took his pound of flesh at thirty-three percent, a fee the prosperous men for whom he prosecuted were more than happy to pay.

  Graves smiled wanly as Paul approached. The smile was a lie. It came to his face reluctantly, like a dog to an abusive master. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Paul stopped at the porch steps. He took off his hat, slid his coin bag into a pocket, and squeezed the hat with both hands. “I need a favor.”

  The old man’s face hardened. It was a practiced, disinterested look. Contrived. Built for the courtroom.

  “I need to leave town for a bit,” Paul said. “And I’d very much appreciate it if you—that is to say, one of your hands—could look after the boy while I’m gone.”

  “His mother is unfit?” Graves said.

  Paul wrung the bill of his hat. “You know she’s unfit, sir.”

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nbsp; Jacob decided one hug was enough. He ran across the porch and back down the steps, on to the green grass. He started a series of somersaults, laughing as he went and picking up grass stains on his knickerbockers. His laughter was music in Paul’s ears, but he could see the stone-faced Graves struggling not to show irritation at the sound. The man could stand before judge and jury boldly telling lies to put money into pockets already overflowing, but drop an unwieldy boy into his presence and watch the stone come unseated.

  Delmont put two hands on the porch railing and leaned forward. His deep in thought pose. Paul wanted to rap the old man’s knuckles just to get one honest reaction from him, to see his face involuntarily move for once in his miserable life.

  “And what do you plan to do with the weapon on your waist?” Graves said. He gave a small nod to the Colt Dragoon.

  Paul cringed. He had intended to button his jacket and hide the gun before arriving. “Whatever’s necessary.”

  “A drunken mother and a thug father,” Graves said. “Seems as though the boy is set for life.”

  “Your gift,” Paul said.

  “An ornament.”

  Paul didn’t respond. He knew how such a line of speaking with a lawyer would go. Might as well try to out-hiss a copperhead.

  Graves released the railing and picked up the tumbler. A breeze lifted the corner of his newspaper. He straightened his back and towered for a moment, as if to impress upon Paul the strength of his station. “Send him in once you've said your good-bye.” He turned and opened the screen door behind him. The spring sounded off—ting-ting-ting—as he passed through the doorway into his home.

  Paul snatched up Jacob as he ran toward the porch. He carried his son up the stairs. “I’ll be back soon. Mind your grandfather.”

  Jacob nodded.

  Paul set Jacob on the porch, turning the boy to face him. He knelt to look into the boy’s eyes, but Jacob was looking at the Colt. He reached out to it. Paul pulled back. “It’s not a toy.”

  Jacob smiled. It made Paul ache with pride. If that smile would one day be as effective with young women as it was with his dad, it would land the boy in a heap of trouble with plenty of other fathers. Jacob made a thumb-finger pistol and pointed it. His blue eyes twinkled when he dropped his thumb, pow.

  Paul made like he’d been shot. “You got me,” he said, clapping a hand over the false wound on his chest.

  Jacob giggled. He took aim at Paul’s feet.

  Paul stood.

  “Dance!” Jacob said, shooting imaginary bullets into the floor.

  Paul kicked up his feet and jumped around, dodging and dancing. “I didn’t do nothin’, sheriff. I swear!”

  Jacob stopped shooting. He blew pretend smoke away from his forefinger and holstered the pretend gun at this waist. Paul couldn’t help but see a boyhood version of Roy in his son. The two shared the same love of conflict, heroes, and villains. He recalled the day his father carried Roy into their home so many years ago.

  “What is this?” Paul’s mother had said, wiping her floured hands on an apron. Winny Marie Constantine stood barely five feet tall, but she had the presence of a giant. “You’re leaving tomorrow, Harold. You can’t bring some boy here and leave him to my ca-”

  She was going to say care, young Paul figured, but she saw Roy’s skin and paused. Her hand went to her mouth.

  “He’s burned pretty bad,” Harold said. He swept aside dishes and silverware as he lay the boy down on the kitchen table. “It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. Must’ve been out there for days.”

  Winny opened a cupboard and brought out a tin of salve. She’d used it on Paul’s youthful cuts and burns over the years. Paul wondered if there would be enough, for it would have to cover the boy’s entire body.

  “Both his ankles are broken,” Harold said. “He must’ve taken one hell of a tumble.”

  Paul’s father had been out fishing. Tomorrow he was to head to the front lines of the war, and as he put it, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t spend his last free day on the river.

  “This boy came floating by on a skiff. I slung my line out and hooked his craft, pulled him in as he floated past. I reckoned he was dead, to be sure. Ain’t nobody alive could suffer that much burning and just lay there. But then I saw his ankles and figured he couldn’t stand. I wouldn’t even have checked for a pulse, except I could see his little chest heaving. It’s the damndest thing.”

  While his father told the tale, Paul felt growing shame. He knew the boy’s skin was not a burn, but that it was… well, whatever it was. He’d seen the same boy outside the schoolhouse two years earlier, and yet he’d never told his parents the story. After what happened that day with George Fickas, young Paul had shrunken into himself. He stopped telling stories, and all but stopped talking. His fishing pole collected dust. He went to school, came home, ate his supper, and sulked off somewhere to sit and stare. He often found himself crying for no reason. His mother and father expressed their worry, but their concerns had been shelved by the war.

  “We don’t have the means to care for this boy,” Winny said. “You’re leaving and who knows when you’ll be back, God forgive me, if you’ll be back. Where will we get medicine and extra food?”

  “I’ll go fishing!” Paul said.

  His parents both looked at him, surprised.

  “I mean, I can help,” Paul said, hands clasped behind his back, up on his tip-toes. “It’s summer now. I can fish everyday and we can get medicine in town.”

  Harold put a hand on his son’s head and smiled. “I’m sure you’d catch as many fish as any healthy boy would need.”

  Paul nodded.

  Harold turned to his wife. “But this boy is sick. I’ve never seen a burn so bad. The least we can do is ease his passing.”

  A month later Paul Constantine had a new best friend. While his ankles recovered, Paul had learned the boy’s name was Roy. He learned that Roy was homeschooled, that he carried a knife, and that his hero was Davy Crockett. He learned that Roy’s father had gone off to the war, too, and that his mother was, as Roy put it, just gone.

  Paul opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but he caught his mother’s stern glance and left it alone. Instead he said, “Have you ever heard the story of Mrs. Patterson’s hatpin?”

  Winny rolled her eyes. “Now, Paul, I’m not sure that’s an appropriate tale.”

  Paul kept his attention on Roy.

  Roy’s eyes moved back and forth between Paul and his mother. Finally, and quietly, he said, “No, I’ve never heard it.”

  Paul gave his mother a sidelong glance with pleading eyes.

  Winny sighed. “All right then. Go ahead, but I won’t bear witness to your blasphemy.” She left the room.

  Paul drew a deep breath. He closed his eyes and released the breath slowly through his nose. When his air ran out he took a second, quicker breath, and began. “Mrs. Patterson,” he said, “was a frightfully mean woman.”

  Roy smiled.

  “And her husband was bored. Bored with his job, bored with his wife, bored with his entire life. So bored was Mr. Patterson, that it was all he could do to stay awake, both at work and at home. It was said the man could even fall asleep while eating.”

  Roy giggled.

  “Mrs. Patterson could abide all the sleeping,” Paul said, growing more animated with the telling, “save for one thing. She wouldn’t tolerate her husband sleeping in church. But sleep in church Mr. Patterson did, and soon Mrs. Patterson came to her wit’s end. She went to see the pastor. ‘What do I do?’ she moaned. ‘How do I stop the oaf from sleeping in church?’

  “’There there, Mrs. Patterson,’ the pastor said. ‘I’ve got your solution in hand.’ He opened a drawer, rummaged around, and finally produced a hatpin topped with Calvary’s cross. ‘Take this hatpin with you. During the sermon I’ll be able to tell when your husband is sleeping, and I’ll motion to you. When I do, just give him a poke in the leg.’

  “The following Sunday, just as ex
pected, Mr. Patterson dozed off during the pastor’s sermon. Seeing this, the pastor put his plan into action. He called loudly from his pulpit, ‘And who was it that made the ultimate sacrifice for your sins?’ He then nodded to Mrs. Patterson. She jabbed the hatpin into her husband’s leg.

  “’Jesus Christ!’ Mr. Patterson cried out.”

  Roy threw his head back with laughter.

  “Soon Mr. Patterson dozed off again,” Paul said, “and again the pastor noticed. He said, ‘And what is the price of a man’s transgression?’ He nodded to Mrs. Patterson. She jabbed her husband’s leg a second time.

  “’Damnation!’ Mr. Patterson wailed.”

  Roy’s mouth fell open at the curse word. He looked around with his shoulders hunched, expecting Paul’s mother to come flying in and start swatting her blasphemous son.

  “Before long Mr. Patterson dozed off again,” Paul said, “but this time the pastor didn’t notice. His sermon was nearing its end, and he had picked up great steam. He was gesturing wildly to his congregation, all of which Mrs. Patterson took as signs she should jab her husband’s leg. As she drove the hatpin deep into Mr. Patterson’s tender flesh, the pastor said, ‘And what did Eve say to Adam after their very first union?’

  “Mr. Patterson screamed, ‘You stick that thing in me again and I’ll break it in half!’”

  Roy exploded into laughter. Paul laughed right along with him. They bent and slapped knees. They wailed and hooted.

  When they were done Paul’s cheeks and ribs were sore. His eyes were wet, just as Roy’s always seemed to be, and through his blurry vision he could swear the boy before him was as ordinary as any other.

  “That’s a humdinger,” Roy said.

  11

  Roy heard movement in the woods. His eyes popped open. He pushed back his hat. It was well past dawn. He cursed himself for sleeping so late. The forest was still cool and his eyes threw no water. He slid the revolver from his waist and clicked back the hammer loudly, hoping to scare off a timid intruder.