Jerkwater

by Jamie Zerndt

  “I was going to put seven hooks into you, sort of like a tribute to Seven, but I didn’t realize how fat you were. Good thing I brought a few extra lures.”

  The great white pig squirmed and moaned, his eyes bulging from his swollen face. The smell was bitter and acrid, like the very smell of hatred itself was seeping out of the man’s skin. Shawna dug another hook in.

  “Your best friend killed my mother. And now you’ve killed my best friend. And don’t think I didn’t consider poisoning you. That would have been fitting. If you ask me, you’re getting off easy here.”

  She pinched another chunk of skin, wrestled the final hook into his skin and took a step back to consider her work. His body reminded her of a deer’s after being skinned. Only way less elegant. She bent down beside his face. “By the way, what I’m doing to you is something boys used to do to themselves voluntarily. It was considered a rite of passage into manhood. It was a way to prove themselves. So, I guess instead of whining constantly, maybe you could try to see it that way. You see, real men don’t swagger and bully. They are still and quiet until they are required to no longer be still and quiet.”

  With that, Shawna stood and grabbed the ropes, cinching them together through a steel ring she had taken off one of Seven’s old halters. Attached to the other end of the ring was a longer, thicker lead rope that Shawna had already swung up and over the fairly large, and hopefully sturdy, ceiling fan. As she pulled, watching the smaller ropes go taut, it reminded her of walking back a kite, the man’s skin like a billowing sail readying itself for lift-off. Only this kite wasn’t going anywhere. She pulled the ropes tighter, the hooks now beginning to tear and stretch the skin. As she did this, the duct-taped squeals intensified.

  “It feel like you’re entering any kind of manhood yet? No? Okay, hold on a sec.”

  Shawna pulled on the rope again, slowly, so as not to tear her handiwork out, and again the skin stretched out gruesomely. Almost comically. Like one of those toys kids used to have where the arms and legs would stretch out. Elastic Man? She couldn’t remember the name now. She pulled some more, having to lean her weight into it now, all the while eyeing the ceiling fan which seemed to be straining just as much as the man’s skin. She stopped. The body, or at least the chest, was now clear of the bed sheets. Hovering. She opened a closet door, walking the rope back hand over hand so as not to let him drop back down, and managed to tie it to the knob. By the time she had finished, sweat was dripping from her face. As for Peyton Crane, he was quiet. And still. So much so that Shawna worried he’d passed out.

  “You awake? I wouldn’t want you to miss out on any of this. You want to earn your man-badge, don’t you?”

  But Peyton Crane wasn’t passed out. He was wide awake, every inch of his insides shivering and trembling like a tuning fork. When he’d first woken up, he thought maybe it was Annette, his ex-wife, biting his back. After the divorce she’d gotten into some pretty kinky stuff, things they’d never even remotely done while married. Which, coincidentally, all began after she started seeing some dickhead down at the paper mill who was twenty years younger than Peyton. Not that it mattered much since she still came around, usually after breaking up with this new fella. And then out would come all the new tricks she’d learned. Most of which Peyton didn’t care much for. And, hell, if she’d wanted him to hurt her so bad, he would have been more than happy to oblige her while they were still married.

  But Annette wasn’t in the room now. That girl was, the one with the damn horse he’d taken care of. Somebody must’ve seen and told her. Or maybe he’d said something at the bar while he was drunk. He could feel his skin stretching and tearing every time he so much as shivered. It was like the bitch had put meat hooks into him. He pulled on the rope tying his hands to the bed. If he could just get one hand free, it would be over in seconds. And then this girl could go join her horse in the sweet hereafter. Or wherever it was the dumbasses believed they went. But the rope wasn’t giving any. And every time he so much as strained against it, he could feel whatever was in his back digging its teeth in further.

  “I’m gonna get a beer. Want one?”

  He could hear the girl open the fridge, her dirty little hands pawing away in there among his food. He’d have to toss everything once this was over with. He could see her feet as she came back into the room. Black boots. If he could speak, he’d ask her where her moccasins were. The sound of a can opening shot through the room making him flinch.

  “That scare you? Sorry. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on shooting you or anything.”

  He listened as she drank, his beer travelling down her throat into her red belly. It angered him more than the hell she was putting his back through. She walked over to the side of the bed and just stood there. One good lunge and he could bite her thigh, but there was no telling what the meat hooks would do to him. Bite back, no doubt, but only worse.

  “I didn’t think it was possible to make a beer any shittier than Budweiser, but you’ve somehow managed to do it.”

  If he could get his teeth into her, he wouldn’t let go.

  “I’m being rude, though. Here, you should have some.”

  He felt the cold pour over his back. It was funny, but the beer actually felt okay. Almost like a salve. And, when he let his head hang down, some of it dribbled its way along his neck and then around the duct tape. He’d been poking his tongue out against it, seeing if there was any give to it.

  “I don’t know how you people can drink this swill. We injuns may not be able to handle our liquor, but if we had white money and jobs, we sure as shit would be smart enough to buy better booze.”

  The girl disappeared from his view, probably sitting at his desk in the corner of the room. The thought of her reading his private mail, or maybe looking through his computer, was too much. It nauseated him more than the blood he could now see pooling up on the sheets beneath him. Peyton breached his back and lowered his head so that his cheek was now touching the bed. He began to slowly move his head back and forth, brushing the tape against the bottom sheet. He could feel a slight peeling along one corner, the sweat and beer loosening it like he’d hoped. Just a little more and he’d have enough of it off so he could breathe. And, more importantly, speak. He arched his back and then lurched his head forward, dragging it across the bed, but, as he did, he felt a tearing along his back, the sound like somebody ripping cardboard in half. Then his body dropped a few inches on his right side. The pain of it came out in a half-gurgle half-scream, a sound not all that different from the one his wife had made when giving birth to their son.

  “What have you done? Are you out of your mind?”

  “You’re Shawna Reynolds.”

  “And you’re your own brand of idiot, you know that? You realize you ripped one of them out? And for what? So you could tell me my name? Brilliant.”

  “I know who you are. Guess now you’ll be spending some time in jail with your step daddy. So who’s the idiot?”

  “Who says you’ll be able to tell anyone?”

  “You don’t have the balls for that. None of your people do.”

  “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

  Peyton knew he needed something to rile her, something that might make her do something stupid. “Hey, you know what Martin’s nickname was for your momma? Red Lobster. You wanna know why? Because all the white trashers liked to eat there.”

  He’d landed one. He could tell because she’d moved away from the bed and was now mumbling something to herself. This was his chance. Better to gain a few scars than end up dying in a pool of his own mess. But, then, just as he was beginning to strain against the ropes, intent on ripping out chunks of skin if need be to gain some slack, the oddest thing happened: she began to lower him back down. He grit his teeth and kept as still as possible, each little drop threatening to tear more pieces from his body. Before long he was resting his head on the bed and could
feel the hooks being removed from his skin, the sensation of which reminded him of a wet knife being slid from a sheath. After the last of the hooks had been removed, the girl lying them on the bed beside him as she took them out so he could see what she’d done, he could feel something dripping onto his back. But it wasn’t beer this time.

  The girl was crying.

  “Knew you wouldn’t kill me. Yours is a weak people. More gullible then even them dumb-ass Jews.”

  The girl stood up, the tears suddenly stopping.

  “You know, I visit Martin just about once every week. He has the most incredible stories.”

  He could see the girl going into the kitchen, so he waited. What he was going to tell her wasn’t true. Not at all. Martin had long since found religion and refused to take visits from Peyton anymore. No reason the girl had to know any of that, though.

  “He loves talking about your mommy. You know, the day it all went down?”

  The girl kept quiet and out of view. Which was unnerving. And he was getting weak from the loss of blood. He grabbed the ropes tying his hands together and sat up on his elbows. It probably wouldn’t do much, but it was worth a shot.

  “He likes to talk about what she looked like, you know, without any head. He said it was like the Fourth of July, only her head was the firework. What did he call it now? Blooming Red Blossom. Or something like that anyway. Said it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Even the cops were all like ooh and aww.”

  Peyton Crane gave one big yank and, much to his surprise, managed to crack the top of the bed frame where the girl had secured the rope. He hurriedly went about untying his hands, grinning all the while at the prospect of soon getting his hands around the girl’s throat. Then, just as he was nearly free, he saw the girl standing there over him, her eyes burning, then the blunt end of the spear coming down as he recognized the yellow lure dangling from her ear as his own.

  That’s my girl.

  When it was done, Shawna dropped the spear and sat on the floor holding her knees, rocking back and forth. She wanted to look at what she’d done but couldn’t because she was shaking so horribly. The room was quiet now. That was the important thing. She needed to gather up all the ropes and lures and put them in her bag. She’d watched enough crime shows to know that her DNA was going to be found one way or another, so she wasn’t worried about that. She just didn’t want to leave a mess. Aside from the human one on the bed.

  Now run and hide yourself.

  Shawna covered her ears and stood, forcing herself to look at the man on the bed. He was so still. His head wasn’t caved in like she feared, though there was a dark wet spot above his forehead. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not, but she wasn’t going to get any closer to find out.

  She grabbed her bag, a few more beers, and an entire rotisserie chicken from the fridge that looked like it hadn’t been touched yet. The sun would be coming up soon. As she got in her car, a few layers of dark seemed to have already peeled away.

  Hurry.

  Shawna started the car and looked in the backseat.

  She knew she’d brought the headlamp for a reason.

  Chapter Nineteen:

  The Scamp

  Kay did have secrets. Although they weren’t the same kind of secrets her husband and his poems had. Kay’s were a little duller, or on a smaller scale maybe, but once she got started writing them down she found she couldn’t stop. And with every little secret she put down, she felt herself growing a little bit lighter, and, simultaneously, a little bit less empty. Once she’d finished, she realized that her biggest secret was maybe that she had been happy and content in her life. And she wanted that secret for Douglas, too.

  “Thank you for doing this, Alma.”

  “You got me out of babysitting duty, so, trust me, I don’t mind.”

  “I thought you adored little Jovie.”

  “Oh, I do, but the girl never stops talking. It’s like one constant stream of thought. By the time they come to get her, my ears are literally ringing sometimes.”

  “Just be happy you’re not hearing things.”

  “What kind of things are you hearing?”

  “Norm, sometimes, but it’s just my mind playing tricks on me.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You remember Daisy Lowell, the woman who lived two doors down from me?”

  “But she was always a little off even before the dementia set in.”

  “True, but she used to tell me how she heard her dead husband following her around the house and complaining about this and that. She said the man wasn’t satisfied with having made her miserable enough in this world, so he stayed around in the next one to make sure he finished the job.”

  “Well, Norm doesn’t say anything mean.”

  “What does he say then?”

  “Just the same old boring stuff he said when he was alive. What’s for dinner? Anything good on tonight? Have you seen my slippers? I’ll take a look at it later.”

  Kay had asked her to meet her at the new coffee shop. She’d decided it was time to help Douglas help himself. The thought of him wasting away at home with her as she succumbed to whatever was heading her way was just too much to bear.

  Jenna set their drinks down. Alma had ordered something called a latte. It seemed just about everyone was more sophisticated than Kay.

  “Here you ladies are. I’ll bring my laptop over in a minute and help you upload the photos. It shouldn’t take that long.”

  “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

  Jenna gestured to the nearly empty room. There was one other customer, a young person who hadn’t once looked up from his phone since she and Alma came in. “I think I can spare a few minutes. It’s for a worthy cause after all.”

  “He does have talent, doesn’t he? You’re not just humoring an old lady?”

  “I don’t play around when it comes to art. There’s not much point. Douglas has something unique. That much I’m certain of. He just needs some help with the fine-tuning.”

  “And you think this school can do that?”

  “If he puts the time in, which I know he will, then yes. It’s one of the best out there.”

  Kay let out a deep sigh. “Okay, let’s do this then.”

  Alma had brought her digital camera from home and went about taking pictures of Douglas’s sketches. When she was done, Jenna sat down with them and attached the photos to the online application. It was something called a low-residency program where they held two-week workshops every semester in Green Bay. Kay could get Marty to watch the shop during those times. When they finally hit the send button, Kay felt close to tears.

  “How long until we find out?”

  Jenna scrolled through a few things. “Looks like we should know in about a week.”

  “And you think he’ll get in?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve had friends apply to this program who didn’t make the cut. It’s a pretty big deal, but I’d say he has a decent shot.”

  “Well, no matter what happens, at least we tried. Thank you both for that.”

  More than a week had passed, and still Kay hadn’t heard anything from the school. As a result, she was having trouble sleeping at night. At least that’s what she was blaming it on. The night before she had gotten up to use the bathroom and had once again seen a light moving across the lake. Or, rather, a boat with someone holding a flashlight had been heading toward the island. There was only one person Kay knew of who would do such a thing, but she hadn’t been willing to go out there at that hour to find out. Besides, people going to that sort of trouble no doubt wanted to be alone. Or with their significant other. Which was the last thing Kay wanted to interrupt. So, she had decided to wait until morning to investigate.

  From the shore, Kay couldn’t
see the boat moored on the island, but she knew it was most likely there. She lugged one of the blue plastic kayaks into the water and climbed in from the dock. When she did, the damned thing hunkered down into the sand so that she had to scoot her bottom forward until she was actually floating.

  Once she was paddling, a small breeze at her back feathered the surface of the water, putting her more at ease. After making it halfway to the island without too much effort, she let herself float a while, her body relaxing into the kayak and the surrounding quiet. As she neared the island, Kay could see the boat nestled there among the foxtails and reed grass. She dug the paddle deep into the water, giving one last solid push so that she and the kayak were able to run up onto the sand. “A little help?” she called out, hoping she was right and it was Shawna who had taken the boat and not some madman.

  Kay was about to attempt to get herself out, something she had never quite managed without toppling herself into the water, when a ghost emerged from the trees.

  A raccoon ghost.

  “My lord, what happened to you?”

  Shawna, her eyes and cheeks smudged with charcoal, stepped into the water to help Kay out. “I’m fine. It’s just an Ojibwa thing.”

  When the girl didn’t offer any more of an explanation, Kay decided to just go ahead and ask. “So is it a ceremony type thing? We Catholics have something called Ash Wednesday where I usually end up leaving the church looking a little like that.”

  There was a plastic crate on the island used as a seat for around the fire pit. Shawna turned it over for Kay to sit on and sat back down on her sleeping bag next to a half-eaten rotisserie chicken. She tore some off and offered it to Kay.