I look up at Cleo. She's calling on her cell phone. I know it's the police; my arm is burning like it's on fire. I tried to kill her, and her damn dog saved her. My arm! My poor arm!
I can't think straight because of the pain. I hold it up to see the jagged flesh and expect to see flames shooting a foot high from my arm. The edges are torn, fatty tissue is exposed, and blood is beginning to flood.
I run. The dog chases me as I scramble to get in my car. The pain is unbearable, and blood is everywhere. I barely get the door closed and start the engine when the dog slams his body against the steel. He's growling, barking, scratching, trying anything to get at me and finish the job. I throw the car into reverse to maneuver out of the tight parking area in front of the dumpster. I hear sirens in the distance. And above all the din of the moment, the seagulls laugh.
Finally, I get the car positioned so I can leave. But not before my rage and revenge forces me to grab the gun stuffed between the seats. The dog has backed off and sits and stares at me from the sidewalk. I take the gun in what remains of my left hand, rev my engine, and put my tattered arm out the window. At least I'll have some revenge on Lulu for destroying my beautiful arm. I punch the accelerator and fire the gun at the same time. Lulu wails as bullets rip through him. And the car lurches through the parking lot towards the dumpster.
Only seconds before impacting with the rusted trash dumpster, I swerve with my right hand. My blood is everywhere, and my whole body is popping with excitement and rage. But it's too late. The car doesn't clear the massive box full of trash, and what remained of my left arm is ripped from my body as the car roars past.
* * * *
At first I think it's prison again, but I'm confused as I wake. I'm in the hospital. I'm bandaged, and I want to scratch my arm, it itches so bad. I'm groggy from drugs and I like the feeling, but I know they only give you powerful drugs if something horrible has happened. Something had.
"You're awake,” a strange young woman says to me while standing.
She was sitting in my room, in a chair, just watching me. “Who are you? How long have you been there?"
She's pretty, but looks like a dyke. She flashes a badge. “Detective Eleanor Simpson."
"I don't have nothing to say."
"Man, what a day you had yesterday. First you try to kill your girlfriend, her dog tears you up, you shoot the dog, and then have your arm ripped off. That had to hurt."
I remember it all now, and I want to flex. There's no muscle anymore, maybe no bone, just a socket, some hanging skin. Why couldn't it have been my right arm? I want to cry, but I don't really know how. I haven't cried since I was a child.
Just then, another officer in plain clothes comes in. He introduces himself, but I don't listen to what he says. Both of them are babbling on about Doc and the gang, immunity for testimony, some other bullshit. Don't they see I can't talk—that I don't want to talk. I don't say a word and hope they go away.
I don't hear anything but seagulls in my head.
Hahahahahahaha.
Lost your arm, they say. I miss Cleo and wonder if she talked to the moon last night.
"Did you hear me?” Detective Simpson says.
"No,” I say. “I wasn't listening to you."
I reach across my body with my right arm and touch the thick bandages where my left arm used to be. It wasn't gone, couldn't be gone; I could feel it. It was all such a bad dream. Maybe it was a bad trip from last night or something. I reach for my strong shoulder, but it's only half what it used to be. Reality stings me; there is no left arm anymore.
"What's wrong?” Detective Simpson asks. “Do you still feel it?"
"Yes,” I answer.
"My dad lost his leg to a landmine in Vietnam. To this day he can feel it."
I don't have anything to say to them about any of this. “Where's the doctor? Where's my arm?"
"I'll see if I can get the nurse,” the other officer says and leaves.
Simpson waits. I look at her with hard eyes, but hers are just as hard. “Your arm is gone. It was mangled and looked like a piece of raw steak. I know you're thinking of reattachment, but it isn't going to happen. I saw them take it away, after they recovered the razor."
She keeps talking, and her voice becomes the pealing cackle of a seagull. I can't understand her. I don't want to. Then behind her, I can see my reflection in the window glass. My arm is there! It isn't gone! I look to make sure, but my physical arm is still missing. There is nothing but dressings on my wound. It has to be an illusion. My mind is playing tricks on me.
In the reflection, though, I see it. Simpson still hackles and cackles while I think about raising my arm. Effortlessly and still beautiful, my arm raises in the reflection. In my hand, the razor rests. I thought I'd dropped it, and Simpson said they recovered it. I think she's lying. With the flick of my thumb, I open it. My grip is tight, nailbeds red, vein pumping down my bicep.
I look at Simpson and smile. I think about bringing the razor about and quickly slicing the officer. Just as I think it, a red line appears across her cheek. I look back at the reflection. My arm is moving under my control yet it is not really there. I have only bandages, but for some reason the razor moves for me in the reflection.
She's stunned. Simpson reaches for her face and touches blood. It's real. Just then, her partner returns with the nurse. The crowing seagull voice turns human, and I hear her freaking out. She blames me. Says I cut her. The other officer inspects my right hand and all around the bed. There's no razor. He comes around to the left side and feels up and down the crease between my body and the bed. Still nothing. I look at my reflection in the window, and I still see my full beautiful arm complete with a blood-tipped razor. I squeeze my hand and feel it. I need to see Cleo.
Simpson leaves with the nurse, and I'm now alone with her partner. He's an athletic-looking dude, and I know he could take me in a fight. He looks quick. But I've got the edge so to speak. I had to be sure, though.
He begins to talk and ask what happened. I don't listen and just look off at the reflection. Inconspicuously, I drag the razor down the sheets with my phantom arm. The fabric splits cleanly. He doesn't see anything different, but I notice.
"What did you ask me?” I say.
"I said what did you do to my partner?” He grits his teeth and his look reminds me of Lulu. “You fucking scumbag."
"I didn't do nothing,” I reply. “She did it to herself and is trying to blame me. I can't even hardly move, and I don't have a weapon. You can see that."
He reluctantly has to acknowledge that and changes his approach. “We have witnesses, you know. We know about your attack on Cleo Warner."
"I need a lawyer,” I say. “I won't talk until I get a lawyer."
"Fine, then just sit there and shut up.” He leaves the room.
I look back at my reflection and I'm overjoyed. It didn't matter what happened and where I went anymore. Just let someone try to mess with me. Who's boss? I'll show you who's boss, motherfucker.
High Lonesome Road
There's something about a hot night in August, when fireflies fill the sky. They collect in the dark, shadowy pools of air beneath the trees, rising and falling between leaf and trunk. Drifting lazily over the grass wet with dew, their bellies blink on and off and on and off, desperately trying to attract a girlfriend.
Buddy had his mayonnaise jar in one hand, the lid in the other. He'd taken great care to stock the empty glass with leaves and twigs; he wanted his bugs to be the happiest in the neighborhood. But there weren't many bugs around the houses in town. The cracked concrete stored the day's heat and threw it back into the sky at night.
If you wanted to find fireflies by the millions, you had to walk behind the row of run-down clapboard-sided homes that had baked for too many years in the western Tennessee sun. Down into the deep woods, past the bridge over the creek, and into the cotton fields. That's where the good bugs were, and that's where he knew he had to go. Buddy had a mission; he wanted to fill his jar w
ith as many bugs as possible, maybe even enough to make it shine like a lantern.
Every night he went on his hunts. He liked to be alone and away from the other neighborhood kids. They were mean, hateful little white kids. Buddy couldn't help the fact that his teeth were a little too large and crooked, that his hair was a little too unruly and nappy, or that his skin was black. The sun had made it shiny, deep and rich like ebony. Out in the woods and fields, looking for fireflies, no one called him names or beat him up for riding on a section of the sidewalk that had been claimed as exclusive territory.
It wasn't fair, he'd tell Momma. She was so nice about it and loved him deeply. She couldn't change the white kids, though. They were as hateful as their parents, she'd say. Don't waste your thoughts on them, she'd say. Don't pay them no mind, she'd say.
That was hard to do when they went out of their way to hit you, throw rocks at you, make you cry. Buddy didn't want to think about them anymore. He had more important things to do.
As the sun's last traces melted from the sky, the moon's full orange face peeked through the thick trees. Behind him, Buddy could see the tiny electric lights of the row houses. He paused to catch his breath in the humidity before continuing through the shallow glen that ringed Mr. Puckett's fields. Beyond that, was the deep woods and all the bugs he could catch.
He turned to face the woods once again. In the shadowy recesses, Buddy saw ribbons of flickering little fireflies dancing. They enchanted him, wooing him into the trees. Buddy captured a few lazy bugs in his jar. He held the jar up to his big brown eyes to get a closer look at his captives. They were fascinating; their tiny abdomens looked like shingles on a house, and were a translucent white when dark. Suddenly, they would glow bright yellow, then fade. Buddy grinned broadly.
The night closed in quickly. Buddy could feel the much cooler air that had gathered in the low areas as he made his way to the cotton fields just beyond. He'd been there a million times before, and the way was familiar. He knew every twist in the trail, every crooked tree along the way, and where the Copperheads were beneath the rocks. That's why the strange sound of a woman singing confused him.
There were no houses back here in the woods, only critters and fireflies. Still, his ears weren't lying. A woman was singing at the top of her lungs, deep and rich, like the old ladies in church on Sunday morning. Then, he smelled something delicious: greens on the stove and chicken frying in the pan.
Confused, Buddy began to follow the sound of the voice. Soon, his familiar woods took on strange qualities. The trees that he knew so well were gone, replaced by nude, grabbing branches, and the path curved in the wrong direction. Buddy looked to the sky; at least the moon was there to watch over him.
Again, he heard the singing, strong and proud for the Lord to come. Buddy turned in the voice's direction and saw a small house nestled comfortably in the woods. There was never a house there before, Buddy reasoned as he began walking towards it. The tin roof reflected in the moonlight, and the windows oozed yellow light that had to be from kerosene lamps. The soothing smells of food made him realize he was lost and hungry. He dropped his jar on the path and moved closer.
Then, as he moved to within feet of the rotted, warped front porch, Buddy noticed the trees were alive with fireflies. They looked like strings of Christmas lights as they glimmered. In some places, the bugs were so thick he thought there had to be hundreds, no thousands, of them just swarming. Mesmerized, Buddy stumbled up the short stairs made of cinder blocks and onto the porch.
The singing took his mind off of the bugs as he reached for the tattered screen door. He wasn't going to knock. Something inside of him told him to walk right on in; he was welcome. The food smelled so good; Buddy felt the saliva pooling in his mouth and it made him swallow hard. He let the screen door slam shut behind him, sending the loud crack of wood against frame echoing through the forest. The fireflies began to descend upon the porch, but he could not see them.
Buddy's heart raced, his pulse pounding so hard he thought the sound would give him away. The mysterious singing was suddenly absent, but there was activity within the house. Glancing around, he noticed there were no decorations, no pictures, no furniture to speak of. The house was bare to the boards except for the large makeshift dining table in the living room. It was made of old planks that were weathered and stained, and chairs, more than twenty in all, ringed it.
"Don't stand there with your mouth catchin’ flies, help me set the table,” a woman said from behind.
"Huh?” Buddy whirled around as she brushed past him.
She was large and plump, with yards of red gingham fabric forming an apron around her ample rear. She wore a man's old denim shirt, and her skirt was made of dark cotton. The same red cloth was also used as a headrag that was tied in the front with the long ends neatly wrapped and tucked in the back. In her hands, clutched to her bosom, was a stack of crisp white napkins. Her skin was even darker than his and contrasted against the napkin tips that brushed her fat chin.
Buddy watched gleefully as she began singing again. The sound came from her soul, deep, sweet and rich like pralines. He was not scared of her, nor did he question where he was. She circled the table, carefully placing each napkin with love.
"Boy, ain't you gonna help me?” She grinned at him.
"What are you doin'?"
"It's almost suppertime, and I got a mess of people gonna get here any minute.” She stopped, flopped the remaining napkins onto the old wood, and put her hands firmly on her hips. “You finish this, and then come in the kitchen when you through."
Obediently, Buddy took up the task of laying napkins at each place. Who was she? For some reason, it didn't matter. She was kind, and even though her house was barren, it was full of her love. Momentarily, Buddy thought of all the warnings adults spouted: don't talk to strangers, don't do this, and don't do that. They wouldn't say any of that if they could see her only for a second.
Then, he remembered the light he saw in her windows. There weren't any candles, nor were there any lights of any kind. He paused in his task to look more closely at the room. Outside of the windows, he saw the fireflies gathering. So thick they looked like dusk or dawn.
"You done yet in there?” the woman called loudly just as he was about to look out the screen door.
"Yes, ma'am,” he replied obediently and rushed into the kitchen.
"Folks is on the way, and I'm way behind.” She was at the sink peeling potatoes.
"What do you want me to do?” he asked.
"See that pot of black-eyed peas on the stove? Stir it and make sure they don't burn.” She smiled as he did so. “So what are you doin’ in my house?"
Buddy stopped stirring; he couldn't think of an answer. His mind couldn't think about anything. He could barely recall what had happened five minutes ago, he was so enchanted. Then, she grinned and started singing again.
When she stopped, Buddy spoke: “The fireflies, I came for the fireflies."
"Ah.” She busily sliced potatoes into a deep pot full of water. “You follow them sweet lightnin’ bugs?"
"Yeah,” he confirmed while stirring. “Why are you makin’ so much food?"
"I got guests, sonny. A whole big bunch of em. I cook supper for ‘em ev'ry night.” She put the pot on to boil. “How them peas?"
"Done, I think."
She leaned in close to check, and Buddy could feel the warmth of her body next to his. She dipped a wooden spoon in and brought out a few peas to test. Blowing on them, she quickly snapped them up and smiled.
"You made great peas. I'll be sure and tell ‘em you cooked ‘em youself."
Buddy grinned proudly. “You want me to do anything else?"
"Not right now, everything's done except for the potatoes.” She reached down for his hand. “I tell you what, let's go out on the porch and sit a spell. Maybe we can hear ‘em comin'."
"Who?"
"My guests."
Her great hand enveloped Buddy's. It was sweaty from
the sultry southern evening and cooking, but he didn't mind. The warmth penetrated his own skin, making him feel comfortable and welcome. Together, they went to the front porch and stepped out into the evening. A cool breeze drifted through the trees, carrying with it a bounty of swirling, flying, tumbling fireflies.
"Lord, there're lotta lightnin’ bugs out tonight,” she smiled.
"I love ‘em,” Buddy blurted joyfully.
"You do?” She gave a little laugh. “I suppose they love you, too."
Suddenly, the stillness of the summer evening was disturbed by a ripple in the air. The distant rhythms of drums and marching echoed from just beyond the tree line. Buddy nervously squeezed her hand, but she only patted him with a reassuring hand.
That's when they saw the first of them. They rounded a curve in the trail, a small band of weary men marching in loose formation. Their dark silhouettes seemed possessed by the drumming of one of them. He called the cadence, set the pace, as they moved closer to the house. Buddy stepped closer to her and slightly behind her full skirt.
SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque Page 26