Clutching at Straws

by J. L. Abramo

  Down the road from the Sack-O-Suds, Ernie Crane sat high atop his old John Deere lawn tractor cutting lazy eights in the grass. He’d skipped the last day of the murder trial because he’d been called upon to testify and wasn’t a fan of the crafty defense attorney from New York.

  A flask of moonshine slipped from his grasp as his eyelids grew heavy from the caress of the strong Alabama sun. He didn’t see that New York lawyer and his girlfriend whizzing by, driving their car as if it were stolen, leaving a trail of dried Alabama mud in their wake.

  Farm fencing disappeared a few miles north where fields of tall wheat bordered the road. Lanky blades of grass bent in the draft of a majestic red Cadillac convertible as it streaked by. Vince Gill’s velvety voice poured through the speakers while Lisa piloted the big Caddy on the long journey home.

  Across the cavernous front seat, Vinny’s mind was somewhere else, probably ten miles back in the Beechum County courtroom. He was still pumped from his first courtroom victory after successfully defending his cousin, Billy, and Billy’s friend, Stan, against false murder charges. Sheriff Farley had arrested and railroaded the boys—making them the lead suspects in Jimmy’s murder case.

  Vinny, nothing more than a fledgling personal injury attorney, had somehow snookered the highly respected judge, convincing him that he had the credentials necessary to represent the two boys in their murder trial. His heart thumped with a pang of guilt as he realized how very close he’d come to losing the trial and with it, the boy’s lives.

  He was staring at the countryside absentmindedly when his thoughts turned to his fiancée. His throat tightened for a moment while he thought about all the love and encouragement Lisa had given him during the lengthy courtroom ordeal. Judge Haller did not suffer fools gladly. He had chastised Vinny at every turn and held him in contempt three separate times. But the tension and sleepless nights they’d both endured were now behind them, vanishing like the sun setting on the horizon. He recalled the county prosecutor’s trial-ending words with great satisfaction, “We’d like to dismiss all charges.”

  His eyes were soft as he drank Lisa in. She was his every dream come true: young, beautiful, capable, nurturing, and as free-spirited as a wild colt. They’d been together more than a decade. With each sunset, he wondered what she saw in him and why she’d waited for him so long, why a woman of such beauty had chosen him. She could touch his heart or infuriate him with a simple glance or a single word, and he loved her all the more for it, that crazy cat and mouse game they played that drove him insane and more deeply in love with each exchange.

  In his heart, he knew that her insights and testimony, her guile and savvy, played a significant part in winning the case. It wasn’t his legal acumen alone that prevented a kangaroo court from sending two innocent boys to the electric chair. He gazed up at the blue sky and silently thanked God for her. She’d waited patiently for him to complete law school, pass the bar, and now finally win his first court case. They’d made a promise to each other many years back, and now it was time to make good on that sacred obligation. He had a sly expression on his face as he said, “I won my first case. You know what that means?”

  She sassed him. “Yeah. You think I’m gonna marry you.”

  “What, now you’re not gonna to marry me?”

  “No way. You can’t even win a case by yourself, you’re fuckin’ useless.”

  He considered for a moment. “I thought we’d get married this weekend.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? That is not romantic. I want a wedding in church with bridesmaids and flowers.”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. How many times did you say that spontaneous is romantic?”

  “Hey, a burp is spontaneous. A burp is not romantic.”

  He told her that he wasn’t in the mood to quarrel but that wasn’t the case, not even close. It was that old cat and mouse game beginning anew.

  It was why Vinny would one day be a great trial lawyer.

  It was why Lisa had been and always would be his match.

  It was the very air they breathed.

  Chapter Two: Still Leaving Alabama

  Lisa had developed a small fondness for country twang from hearing it day after day for almost two months. The wind was in her hair as “Wicked Game” played on the radio. The sorrowful, conflicted tone of Chris Isaak’s voice turned her insides to jelly. As her mind wandered, she glanced over at Vinny and saw that he was dozing. She couldn’t help but smile because she loved the infant-like face he made when he slept. She envisioned her wedding reception—dancing with Vinny as the band played their song, “Linger.” For a few brief seconds, that dirt-swept stretch of Alabama roadway became heaven on earth.

  She reveled in the moment and let her mind go. She thought about the life they would make together and a family of their own, a boy and a girl—they’d have the girl first…naturally.

  And then…

  She jammed on the brakes and swerved as a large raccoon darted from the shadow of a dense patch of brush, racing across the road just as the tires of the big Caddy threatened to pulverize it.

  Vinny’s eyes shot open and he clutched his chest. “Whoa! What the hell, Lisa? You asleep at the wheel or something?”

  “Me asleep? No, I’m not asleep.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Lisa, you gotta be more careful. You scared the ever loving shit out of me.”

  “That’s because you were asleep. Some copilot you are. I could’ve been driving down a backwoods road where some good ol’ boys were waiting to go all Deliverance on your ass.”

  “Me asleep? Don’t be ridiculous. I was just resting my eyes.”

  “Well while you were resting your eyes a rat the size of a leopard shot across the road like Secretariat coming down the home stretch and almost took out the front bumper. What did you want me to do? Hit the fuckin’ thing?”

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “For the love of God, Lisa, look at the way you’re holding the wheel.”

  “What? You don’t like the way I’m holding the wheel?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You got your hands at the bottom. Ten and two, Lisa,” he instructed. “Ten and two.”

  “Listen, Vinny, I’ve got five times more experience behind the wheel of this car than you do. My hands are just fine where they are, thank you.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why do they instruct new drivers to keep their hands at ten and two when they take the test for their driver’s license at the Department of Motor Vehicles?”

  “They teach that, do they? What did you take your road test in? An Edsel? Or was it a horse and buggy?”

  “Why? Are you saying something’s changed?”

  “Yeah, it did. Something did. That’s right.”

  “Well I drive just fine and I didn’t hear nothin’ about it.”

  “That’s because you’ve been in law school and taking the bar exam for the last ten years. Ain’t ya ever heard of air bags?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Because. During a collision, an air bag will explode out of the steering wheel hub at more than a hundred miles per hour. It’s ignited by a detonator, just like the ones used to detonate bombs. As you know, it’s designed to protect the driver’s head and chest from slamming into the windshield, but with your hands at ten and two or higher, the driver’s arms can be thrown back at very high velocity and you can get severely hurt.” She nodded emphatically. “Keeping your hands lower down on the wheel prevents that. I routinely keep my hands at eight and four.”

  “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Yeah? Well picture this. It’s a beautiful sunny day. You got the top down and the sun is shining in your face. You’re driving on a nice twisty road back to New York when out of nowhere the guy in the oncoming lane loses control, swerves, coming right at you, and bam! The next thing you know an explosion rips your arms out of their sockets and they’re pointin
g backwards, dangling in the breeze like the scarecrow’s after the flying monkeys had their way with him in The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Oh,” he said. “So I guess you could say that eight and four is the new ten and two.”

  “That’s a very good analogy.”

  “Just like when people say that sixty is the new forty.”

  “Also a good analogy. Only in your case, forty is the new eighty because you’re using driving techniques that went out of practice with the stagecoach. And don’t you dare wait until you hit the new sixty before you make a change in your driving habits.”

  “Oh, yeah. And why is that?”

  “Because…” She glanced at him over the top of her sunglasses. “You’ll be dead.”

  Lisa’s father and brothers had all worked as automobile mechanics. Even though Vinny sometimes helped out in the garage, she had worked as a mechanic extensively and knew considerably more about cars than he did. She was a veritable compendium of automobile knowledge and had bested him yet again. He smiled nonetheless—he had a card up his sleeve and was dying to play his hand. He shook his head and grinned, slid closer to her and stroked her cheek affectionately. “You’re pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  She smiled happily. “Yeah, maybe I am. I mean it’s been a very, very good day for me. I watched my fiancé save two innocent young men from going to the electric chair, and I received a proposal of marriage. Don’t get me wrong—you proposed like a real dope. Still, things could be worse.”

  “So where do you want to get married? Back home in Brooklyn or right here in Ala-fuckin’-bama?”

  “That’s a very silly question.”

  “No it’s not.”

  She looked at him as if he were crazy. “What do you mean? Didn’t you hear what I said about being romantic? How could you ask me a question like that after what I told you?”

  “It’s not a silly question,” he insisted.

  “Yes. It is.”

  “No. It’s not!”

  “Why isn’t it?” she asked, already sure from the confidence he displayed that he had her.

  He pointed at the instrument cluster and tapped the fuel gauge. “Because, genius…we’re about to run out of gas.”

  Chapter Three: Stuck in Ala-Fuckin’-Bama

  “What luck,” Vinny boomed as he pointed up the road. “Look over there past the clearing in the trees. It’s a gas station sign. Pull in over there.”

  Land was cheap in Beechum County. As they drew closer, they saw that the service station sat on acre upon acre of unimproved land, a Shangri La for rusted pickups and tractors. Weeds grew tall between the disintegrating car frames, taller than the cabin of one of the backhoes. A sapling had grown into a thick tree within a rusted car chassis and was now imprisoned by it. A scruffy white and gray mutt dashed out and howled at Vinny as he got out of the car. “Easy, boy,” he said as the dog sniffed his pointy western boots.

  Lisa glanced at the dog. “How do you know it’s a boy?”

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘Easy, boy.’ How do you know it’s a boy?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Lisa, are you for real? I didn’t literally mean the dog was a boy. Did you see me get down on my hands and knees and do an anatomical inspection of the dog’s under parts? It’s a figure of speech.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “I get it. It’s a figure of speech, like when I say you’re a pain in the ass it doesn’t actually mean that my butt hurts.”

  The dog cautiously backed away only to dash after the next car coming down the road. Vinny threw his hands in the air and walked to the pump. He tried to lift the nozzle out of the slot but the pump was locked. “Shit!” He glanced in through the open doorway and saw someone behind the counter. “The pump’s locked,” he said wearily. “I’ll be right back.”

  An obese man sat behind the counter. His T-shirt-covered belly billowed over his belt like suds over the top of an overfilled glass of beer. He had a full gray beard and wore a hunting cap. Before him, a slab of meat swam in a plate of brown gravy. He looked up at his new customer, covered his mouth, and belched before taking a bite of heavily buttered corn bread. He picked up a plastic knife and fork and used the disposable utensils to saw through his steak. “Kin I hep ya?” The morsel he stuffed in his mouth was large enough to feed an entire migrant family for three solid days.

  Vinny’s eyes grew large at the spectacle. “That’s quite a lunch you’ve got there. You always eat like that?”

  “Nope, I’m cutting back,” he answered with a full mouth as he pulverized the meat between his molars. “But I had a big breakfast and my wife is bellyaching that I’m gittin’ too fat.” He focused on his steak, slicing the boneless cut into large chunks. He belched, this time without covering his mouth, just as a gray-haired woman in a housecoat emerged from the back room carrying a hefty plate of meatloaf also swimming in gravy.

  “That’s all I got left, Buck,” she said. “That’ll have to hold you ’til dinner.” She smiled at Vinny politely.

  “You gonna eat that too?” Vinny asked.

  “Figure I am.” He covered his mouth and made a sour face before narrowing his eyes at her. “Damn GERD. Jozelle, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t cook with so many onions.”

  “It don’t taste like nothin’ without the onions, Buck. How many times you tell me not to cook insipid? ’Sides, Oren’s coming home for a visit tomorrow and you know how he’ll holler if my cooking got no taste.” She turned to Vinny beaming with pride. “Oren’s our son. He’s in his third year of medical school at Johns Hopkins Medical School. My boy is gonna be a pediatric surgeon one day.”

  “I’m impressed. A pediatric surgeon? He must be one hell of a smart kid.”

  “Smart? Hell, he was number one in his class at Northwestern. Didn’t cost me a cent all four years he went to college.” Buck looked up and drew a deep, fortifying breath. “He keeps warning me about my weight—I think startin’ tomorrow I’m gonna go on some kind of diet.”

  “Hell, Buck, we goin’ to dinner with Oren and the grandkids at the Chomp-N-Chicken tomorrow,” she reminded him. “Maybe you ought to start the day after.”

  The gas station mutt poked his head in the door, barking and howling loudly.

  “Damn mutt,” Buck groused. “Throw that damn dog one of them hush puppies and keep it from yapping, will ya, Jozelle?”

  She reached into the pocket of her housecoat and hauled out a smoked pig’s ear the size of a dinner plate. Cocking her arm, she flung it Frisbee-style and it went whizzing past the dog, which yelped excitedly and took off running.

  Buck covered his ears. “I swear I’m gonna shoot that dog one of these days.” He grimaced and put a hand on his chest. “I think I need a gas pill. I swear, if I thought my insurance would cover it, I’d get one of those lap band things.”

  Vinny was growing impatient. “I’m glad you’re trying to take better care of yourself, Buck, but I’m kind of in a hurry and I noticed the gas pumps are locked. So…how come?”

  Buck was still grimacing as he answered. “How come? I guess you ain’t from around these parts, are ya?”

  “Me? No, I ain’t from around here.”

  “You from up north?” Jozelle asked.

  “Why?” he laughed. “Don’t I sound like a good ol’ boy?”

  She looked at Buck and shrugged.

  Vinny continued, “Yeah, you guessed it. I ain’t from around here. I’m from New York. Why do you ask?”

  “That explains it,” Buck said. “You probably ain’t heard about the atrocious murder over at the Sack-O-Suds convenience store. I’m fixin’ to install me one of them closed circuit TV systems. Two Yankee boys done shot young Jimmy Willis in cold blood.”

  Vinny thought about keeping his mouth shut, but he just couldn’t. “Um…I don’t think you got your facts straight, Buck. Those two Yankee boys were exonerated.”

  Jozelle became alarmed. “What? They fried them boys already?”

&n
bsp; Vinny laughed. “No, dear,” he explained. “I said ex-on-er-ate-ed, not elec-tro-cute-ed. They were acquitted,” he said with a robust smile. “Found innocent of all charges.”

  “That so? Well then who shot Jimmy Willis?” Buck asked.

  “Two other guys were arrested in Jasper County, Georgia, a couple of days ago. They found the gun they used and everything.”

  “That sounds like horseshit to me,” Buck said. “They found another pair of boys with the same gun?”

  “Not the same gun, Buck. The first set of kids…well they didn’t have a gun…only a can of tuna fish.”

  “Where was those guilty boys from?” Buck asked.

  “Sorry, I really don’t know.”

  “Huh. What did I tell you, Jozelle? I heard them Yankee boys had some kind of slick, hot shot attorney. That’s how them New York ambulance chasers work. They probably found two local boys to use as scapegoats.” He reached under the counter and withdrew a Smith & Wesson 9mm. “I tell you what—I don’t know much about any fancy legal mumbo jumbo, but this here sidearm is the only kind of justice I need. I’m surprised Jimmy wasn’t carrying over at the Sack-O-Suds. For my money, I think everyone ought to carry a gun.”

  Vinny recoiled at the comment. “Really? You really think that?”

  “As the Lord is my witness.”

  “Whoa. Ain’t you ever heard of gun control?”

  “Gun control, my ass,” Buck said. He turned the gun around and offered it to Vinny. “You hold this gun in your hand and tell me it don’t make you feel like a better man.”

  “Ah, that’s all right. I think I’ll just get some gas and go. Thanks anyway.”