The Heavenly Table

by Donald Ray Pollock

  “Pissed on?” Chimney said. “What kind of sick fucker would want something like that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the cabbie said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m just tellin’ you what I’ve heard.”

  “Well, we just want some of the regular,” Chimney said. “The freaks can have all that other shit.”

  The cabbie took them out on the Huntington Pike a quarter of a mile and drove down a lane, pulling up and stopping in front of a long open shed. “This is it?” Chimney said, sounding a little disappointed. He’d been imagining something grand, like the House of Love, a bordello that Bloody Bill once shot up in Kansas City, all stained-glass windows and mahogany woodwork with a string quartet playing on the stone terrace.

  “Yep,” the cabbie said. “But don’t let the looks of it discourage you none. And if you’re anything like me, I’d say you’ve laid with women in places a lot worse than this. Why, one of the best fucks I’ve ever had was in a coal bin.” In front of the shed a man in a white shirt and paisley vest sat alone at a campfire with a tin coffee cup in his hand. Off to the right, an older-model car and a huge wagon were parked alongside a wire pen that held some horses eating from a mound of hay. Three tents were pitched in a row inside the shed. Several soldiers were drinking at a bar made from boards set across two barrels and talking to another man with a holstered pistol on his side. Half a dozen lanterns hung from beams inside the shed, but they weren’t lit yet and the place looked more like a camp for migrant workers than a cathouse. “Who do we talk to?” Chimney asked as they got out.

  “The man a-sittin’ at the fire,” the cabbie said. “He’ll fix you up.”

  When Blackie saw them approaching, he stood up and smiled at them with the biggest, whitest teeth they had ever seen. His thick, dark hair was slicked back in a high pompadour that reminded Cane of a rooster’s crest. “You boys lookin’ for some fun?”

  “Yeah,” Chimney said.

  “Well, you came to the right place,” Blackie said. “I got one named Matilda who’s free at the moment.”

  “She ain’t the fat one, is she?”

  “No, that’s Esther. You want her, you’ll have to wait in line. Those boys standing at the bar are next. Matilda’s a little on the lean side, but she’s a wildcat in the sack.”

  “How much?”

  “Matilda’s a high-quality four-dollar piece.”

  “She’ll do,” Chimney said, pulling out some money. “Maybe I’ll try the big one later.”

  “Last tent down,” the pimp said. “Go ahead. She’ll be waiting on ye.” Then he turned to Cane and looked at his suit. “Now you look like a man who likes something a little more refined. I got a real lady who speaks French. She’s with another customer right now, but they should be about finished.”

  “How much does she cost?” Cane asked, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. He watched his brother disappear inside the brown canvas tent.

  “Peaches is the same as Matilda.”

  Cane had just handed the man his money when a wheezing old-timer with brown, leathery skin came out of the second tent dragging one leg behind him. He stopped and bent over, hacked a throat-full of yellowish phlegm onto the ground, then continued on until he disappeared into the line of trees beyond the horse pen. “There ye go,” Blackie said, “right on time.”

  As he walked past the soldiers, Cane heard them talking among themselves about Esther. “She’ll do anything you want and you don’t have to pay extra for it, either. Me and ol’ Dugan double-teamed her the other night, worked her over from the front and the back till we damn near met in the middle.” With a little trepidation, he pulled back the flap on the tent and stooped down a little as he entered. A woman with long blond tresses and a pretty face was squatted down over a bucket in the corner, but when she saw him, she sprung up and pulled her white slip down. She reached over and picked up a cigarette from a little wooden box on the table, then said with a frown, “Just give me a couple minutes, okay? I need a smoke.”

  “Take your time,” Cane said. “I’m not in any hurry.” He was a little surprised at how comfortable the tent looked, almost like a regular room. A padded chair sat in the corner, and on a polished nightstand beside the small bed was a lit candle and some slightly wilted wildflowers in a blue vase.

  “I’m supposed to get five minutes between customers.”

  “I’m sorry, but he told me to come on back. The boss, I mean.”

  “Yeah, Blackie’s a slave driver. That’s what Matilda calls him.”

  “Want me to step back outside until you’re ready?”

  “No, Jesus, don’t do that. He’ll wonder what’s going on. Just take your pants off and lay down on the bed.”

  Cane glanced over at the bucket, then sat down in the chair instead. He tried not to think about the old, dirty bastard who had just left the tent a couple of minutes ago, looking like a mummy emerging from his tomb. Christ, if he’d actually been able to get an erection, she probably still had some of his dusty wad up inside her. Though he wanted a woman, he didn’t want one this bad. He was trying to figure a way out of it without hurting her feelings when he remembered what the pimp had said. “So, you speak French?” he asked her.

  “I do,” Peaches said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “but only for money.”

  “Well, how about you just talk to me for a while? To tell ye the truth, I think I’m too worn out to do anything else.”

  “You mean in French?”

  “Yeah,” Cane said. “We built a fence one time for a man whose wife spoke it whenever she was pissed at him. I always did like the sound of it.”

  “It’ll cost you a dollar extra.”

  “That’s all right,” Cane said. He took a dollar out of his pocket and laid it beside the flower vase.

  Peaches stabbed the cigarette out in an ashtray, then stood up and shook out her hands, as if she were getting ready to perform some great feat. “Parlez-vous Français?” she asked with a wink. “Oui,” she replied, nodding her head. It turned out that her entire act was composed of perhaps a dozen or so such words and phrases. Then, as far as Cane could tell, she repeated everything two more times before finally stopping and looking down at his crotch. “Did ye get off yet?”

  “What?” he asked, a little confused. “No, I was just…You mean men actually…”

  “Well, yeah, that’s the point, ain’t it?” She reached for another cigarette. “Hold on a minute and I’ll start over. Try to pay attention this time.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Cane said, relieved that it was over with. “Like I said, I’m wore out.” He stood and turned to exit.

  “Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Look, I don’t want you complaining to Blackie, so if you’re in the mood for something else, I’d be happy to oblige. As long as it’s not too, well, too unnatural. You want something like that, you’ll have to see Esther.”

  “No, no, it’s been nice,” Cane said. “Don’t worry, I got no complaints.” He bent through the flap and damn near ran over another customer waiting outside, a big-bellied, middle-aged man sucking on a lollipop and wearing a green eyeshade.

  He bought a splash of whiskey for a quarter from the man at the bar, and nursed it while listening to the soldiers yipping and yowling like dogs inside the front tent where the fat lady was stationed. The pimp still sat at the campfire, but now he was slicing an apple with a knife, dabbing each thin piece into some salt sprinkled on a stump beside him before he stuck it in his mouth. It was another thirty minutes before Chimney finally emerged from the last tent, a sheepish grin on his face. He walked over to Blackie and said, “I owe you for two more.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed him eight dollars, then motioned for Cane that he was ready to leave.

  They walked back toward town, the taxi passing them on its way to the Whore Barn again. It felt nice to be out in the open and not hiding in some dismal swamp or ditch somewhere. Chimney couldn’t stop talking about Matilda. How soft
and velvety she felt inside, the sweet way she smelled, the manner in which she wrapped her legs around his back and held him tight after he shot his third load. “Third?” Cane said. “You were only in there an hour, if that.”

  “Shit, I could have gone five or six if I’d known what I was doing at first. What about you?”

  “Just one,” Cane lied.

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Oh, she was pretty enough,” Cane said. “What about yours?”

  “Matilda? She was beautiful.”

  “Well, I’m glad ye got you a good one,” Cane said.

  “So, what about tomorrow night?”

  “What about it?”

  “Go back out, get some more. Maybe you should try the fat one.”

  “Ah, I don’t think so,” Cane said. “I’ll probably do something with Cob. Wouldn’t be right to leave him alone every night.”

  “Well, that’s up to you, but I already told Matilda I’d be back,” Chimney said. “And I wouldn’t want to break a promise.”

  “No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” Cane said, trying his best to sound at least a little sincere.

  “And at four dollars a shot, why, hell, you can’t beat that.”

  “No, it’s cheap enough, I reckon.”

  “Matilda’s probably worth twice that. And she’s nice, too. I mean, for a whore.”

  “Well, just remember, those girls are apt to say anything for money.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to tell me nothing,” Chimney said. “Remember that damn Joletta Bunyan? She fed Bloody Bill enough lies to fill a corncrib.” He started to say something else, but then stopped and pulled a flyer out of his pocket instead, handed it over.

  “What’s this?” Cane said. They were crossing the bridge and a car was headed toward them. He held the paper up in the glare from the headlamps and saw, in bold black letters: THE LEWIS FAMILY! NOW APPEARING AT THE MAJESTIC THEATER! Underneath the heading was a picture of some stout men in bow ties and an ape dressed in a sailor costume.

  “Guy at the hotel gave it to me. It’s like a show or something. I figured Cob might like to see the monkey.”

  “Yeah, I expect he would.”

  They were passing by the paper mill when Chimney noticed a saloon across the street. “How about we get us a beer?” he said. “All that lovemaking’s got me thirsty.”

  “I bet it did,” Cane said. He was a little worried about what Cob might be up to, but he didn’t want to spoil Chimney’s big night, either. “All right, but just one. Then I got to get back to the hotel.”

  The Blind Owl was empty except for the keep and a bearded man sitting alone at a table by the window, eating hog cracklings from a sheet of greasy newspaper. They asked for two beers, and Pollard served them with a grunt, then went back to the other end of the room. For a couple of minutes, they sat looking at their reflections in the mirror and listening to the man behind them crunch the rinds between his teeth. Finally, Chimney lifted his mug and said, “Race ye.” Once they were back outside, he spat and said, “Goddamn, a graveyard would be livelier than that fuckin’ place. What the hell’s that sonofabitch’s problem anyway?”

  “Maybe he’s one of them mutes,” Cane suggested.

  “Nah, a prick’s more like it.”

  Before parting ways uptown, they walked over to take a look at their new car parked underneath a light around the corner from the Warner. “Like I told ye,” Chimney said, “gettin’ it started is a little tricky sometimes, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “I hope so,” Cane said, watching as his brother leaned over and rubbed the smudge of a handprint off the front fender with his shirtsleeve. “That thing’s our way out of here.” He yawned and stretched, then looked down the street toward the McCarthy. “Make sure you make it to the park tomorrow evening, okay?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Back in the hotel room, Cane found Cob flat on his back in bed snoring loudly. He saw that half the ham was gone and all of the doughnuts. He hung up his suit coat and took off his shoes and sat down in the chair next to the window. Cob muttered something in his sleep, then rolled over on his side. Turning on the lamp, Cane took a sip of whiskey from one of the pints he had bought, then picked up the Shakespeare and turned to the page in Richard III he had dog-eared. After a while, he put the book down and looked out the window at the dark storefronts across the street. It was the end of their first night in Meade. Much had been accomplished, and there hadn’t been the slightest sign of trouble.

  53

  THE NEXT MORNING, Cob awoke early, already thinking about doughnuts. He looked over at Cane, dead to the world, the book opened on his chest and the bottle nearly empty on the nightstand. He put on his new clothes and slipped out, quietly closing the door behind him. He headed first thing to the bakery where they had stopped yesterday. He went inside and laid five dollars that Cane had given him on the counter and asked the lady working if that was enough to buy a dozen doughnuts. Mrs. Mannheim, a thin, nervous woman with a fingerprint of flour on her forehead, immediately suspected that he was testing her. She glowered at him with bloodshot eyes. Two days ago, the city councilman known as Saunders had accused her of shorting him a nickel, even had the nerve to suggest that she was sending the money she cheated honest Americans out of to her relatives over in “Deutschland,” as he’d called it. She had lain awake all night worrying about what sort of trouble he might cause for her and Ludwig, her husband.

  She looked down at the money on the counter. It was obvious that they had decided to send in one of their flunkies posing as an idiot to see if she would overcharge him. It was all a conspiracy, just because she and Ludwig were of German heritage. She had lived in Meade nearly fifteen years, and was as patriotic as anybody else in Ross County, but ever since America had declared war in April, she sensed that people were casting suspicious looks her way. The newspapers were urging everyone to be on the lookout for enemy spies. One little slipup and she and Ludwig would be on the shit list. After that, who knew what might happen? Burn their business down? Put them on trial for treason? She had shaken Ludwig awake last night, and told him they should start taking turns guarding the place at night. He had groaned and covered his head with his pillow to shut her out, but then he’d always been too trusting when it came to people. By the time he saw the light, everything they had worked so hard for would be in ruins.

  “Of course, of course,” Mrs. Mannheim said to Cob. She bagged up a dozen and handed them to him. He turned and started out before she could make his change, leaving the five dollars on the counter. That was all the proof she needed; now she was certain something was going on. “Stop,” she said in a harsh voice just as he reached for the doorknob. “You forget this.”

  “What?”

  “Come back here,” she ordered.

  Cob looked down at the money the woman placed in his hand, the same amount he had laid on the counter. He was confused. “But ain’t you…ain’t you supposed to…” he stammered.

  “On de house,” she said loudly, slapping her hand on the counter. That would fix the bastards! Watching him take off his cap and scratch his head, a look of befuddlement on his round face, she had to admit he was a hell of an actor. Much better than that bunch of West Virginia cretins that called themselves the Lewis Family who were performing at the Majestic again this week. Ludwig was a big fan of theirs, he had probably seen their show, if that’s what you wanted to call it, a dozen times over the last couple of years. They were always sending over for a special request, hedge-apple turnovers or squirrel-brain pie or some other hillbilly treat. As if they were still back in the snaky holler they had crawled out of to win, by what had to be, she was convinced, some perverse alignment of the stars, fame and fortune on the stage. Ludwig was always repeating their stupid jokes to the customers. Not a one of them did she find funny. It made no sense, the way Americans sometimes went bananas over certain people for absolutely no reason, as if they were just drawing names out of a hat. She�
��d watched her own nephew go insane over his fixation with a doll-faced bimbo whose only talent was smiling prettily into a camera. How hard would Ludwig hee-haw, she wondered, when a gang of liquored-up vigilantes pulled them out into the street and hung them from a lamppost just for being German? “Patriotic murder,” she’d heard they called it. “On de house,” she repeated to the stunned-looking flunky, pointing at the door.

  Detecting the anger in her voice, Cob ducked his head and left the bakery. He walked along until he found a bench to sit on. He was eating doughnuts and mulling over the woman’s strange behavior when he saw a man coming toward him wearing a white helmet and carrying a long stick. He was talking to himself and looking down at the sidewalk; and Cob thought he looked like he could use a little cheering up. “Hey, would you want one of these here doughnuts?” he asked. “The lady said they were on de house.”

  Jasper Cone looked up, saw a stocky, round-headed man in new bib overalls smiling at him. He didn’t quite understand at first. Nobody had ever, except maybe Itchy a time or two, offered him a doughnut before, but then he usually didn’t partake of breakfast. It was a habit his mother had instilled in him when he was young. She had always stressed a morning fast to clear the head of dirty thoughts, mostly because she was convinced that anyone built like her son was probably oozing with them. “Don’t mind if I do,” Jasper said. Sticking his hand down into the greasy paper bag, he pulled one out and admired it for a moment, then sat down on the bench. He laid his measuring pole on the sidewalk in front of him and stretched out his legs, crossed one rubber-booted foot over the other.

  They sat there for a while chewing in silence and watching the people pass by. Cob noticed that most of them moved over to the other side of the sidewalk as they neared the bench. Granted, the man had a certain ripeness about him, but still, that didn’t account for the cold stares and hateful looks they cast his way. Most people, Cob concluded, weren’t nearly as decent as they imagined themselves to be. Just look at the way he had turned out. Never in his darkest dreams would he have ever thought himself capable of killing a man, or stealing from one, and yet he had done both. Though he’d gladly give all the hams and pies and five-dollar bills in the state of Ohio just to see Tardweller ride by in his buggy, even he knew you couldn’t wish away the past. He looked over and saw the man swallow the last of the doughnut, wipe the grease and sugar off his hand onto his dirty trousers. Cob held the bag out. “This is nice,” Jasper said, reaching in for another.