“You gonna wear it?”
“Maybe. When hell freezes over.”
CHAPTER 7
JUNE 26, 1934
The only sound in the house was the radio. It was a faceless voice that rambled on night and day but never answered back when it was spoken to. The box still confounded Sonny. The little boy in him, the one who grew up under the tutelage of a Ranger legend, in a world without electricity or the thought of such a thing, still believed the radio was magic. Problem was, that little boy was buried too deep—even deeper these days—to have a say in things, especially about things such as magic.
Sonny stood at the front door, his eyes focused on his truck. There was no moisture to witness, no morning dew to offer sustenance to the dying grasses and clovers that blanketed the ground all the way to the road. Everything was brown, offering no sign of division in the ownership of the land. Fences blended in with the eye, or fell away completely on the flat ground, offering an infinite and democratic view of the struggle to stay alive, brought on by the summer sun. Everything was touched and tainted by the heat, the constant glare, the unrelenting oppressiveness of the long days. He should have been used to it by now, and maybe he was, but the loss of his arm had made him forget the most basic semblance of things. Like how to walk standing up straight, or wipe his ass, or fix his own goddamned breakfast. Lucky thing was Sonny didn’t have to learn how to breathe all over again because, as things were, he might’ve just chosen not to take on such a task. It would’ve been easier. Less painful to just stop and give up the effort.
The blazing red sun arched upward into the clear sky like a torch intent on setting fire to any cloud that dared to materialize or to interfere with the coming heat. There wasn’t even any birdsong to offer hope in the morning. If the early bird had been out for the worm, it had already hightailed it home in search of a patch of shade and a long nap.
Nothing living stirred within Sonny’s view, and, if it weren’t for the constant voice blaring over the radio, he might’ve had to consider that sometime during the night the world had come to an end and he’d woken up alone, the last man standing, stuck in the grips of a hell that looked pretty much like his own world.
“Lou Gehrig continued his continuous at-bat cycle,” the sportscaster droned over the radio, breaking Sonny out of his miserable thoughts. “At this rate, the Iron Horse will surpass fifteen hundred consecutive appearances by September, certainly assuring him MVP status for the season. The Yankees pounded the Chicago White Sox eleven to two, with rookie pitcher Johnny Broaca on the mound. Broaca, a Yale graduate, fanned five times, setting an all-time Major League record. Stay tuned for the morning weather and other news of the day, after this brief message from Burma Shave.”
Sonny turned his attention away from the truck then, from the outside world, certain that he wasn’t alone in it, and made his way to the radio. He knew what the weather was going to be. He didn’t need a damn weatherman to tell him what to expect for the rest of the day. Misery. Just more misery to add to the rest of the days ahead of him.
He turned off the radio with a quick twist and stood in the center of the kitchen, unsure of what to do next.
Baseball mattered little to him, and with Bonnie and Clyde dead and buried there was no need to know the news. The financial markets, the politics, the unrelenting heat, and the accusations and blame for the current state of economic affairs were of no interest to him. It was all just like the weather: misery heaped on misery. It was like a fiery cloud had blanketed every man, woman, and child with ashes of hopelessness. A Depression. No matter how sunny the sky was one day to the next, the oppressive gray mood of the nation wasn’t going to go away any time soon.
Sweat beaded on Sonny’s forehead. His dirty white T-shirt clung to his chest, damp from a night of tossing and turning. His scar had itched without relenting. Touching it only made the nightmare real; calling it a stump was almost unbearable. Looking at it in the mirror was worse. He didn’t fear infection. Just the slow death brought on by it. He couldn’t imagine lying in his own filth, the clock ticking away, the radio blabbering on, waiting for Jesse to happen by if he lost the ability to get to the telephone and call for help—or to his Colt .45 so he could put an end to his own suffering.
The telephone was another modern convenience that was just a reminder of his loneliness. The telephone sat on the wall, useless and silent, unable to offer anything but a way out. It never rang. No one had reason to talk to him. At least the radio brought music into the house from time to time.
Loneliness had never entered his mind; an empty bed was not a consideration of loss. He had grown accustomed to sleeping alone since Martha had died. He hadn’t felt the need, or desire, to replace one woman with another. The thought of it was too much trouble. Love and physical need were best left to the young. He’d had his work as a Texas Ranger to occupy his mind and tire his body—at least until that fateful day when he saw Bonnie and Clyde walking out of the Ritz Theater like they owned the world.
Now, he had neither: no wife or job to wear him down. All he had was time. Silence and time.
Even awake, standing in wait of the day, Sonny just wished for sleep. Deep, restful sleep that wasn’t filled with screams and visions of bloody, lifeless arms not attached to anything, just floating away from him. Out of reach.
Sonny had forgone breakfast, at least for the time being, and made his way to the water pump outside the house. The thought of a cold bath was the only thing that propelled him to step one foot in front of the other.
The muscles in his left arm were still not accustomed to carrying the entire load of his existence. The arm ached, and tightness came to it easily with every new task he introduced it to. There was no other choice of mobility—other than to wear the monstrous contraption that sat unpacked on the dining room table. That was not a solution as far as Sonny was concerned. How could it help him be whole? It was another impossible thought.
Pain shot up and down Sonny’s left arm as he began to pump the water into the pail. Thankfully, it didn’t take long until the water began to spew from the faucet.
In times of a hard drought, water was liquid gold. The difference between life and death. The well was deep and had never run dry. Of course, when times warranted, Sonny was frugal with the water. He knew the value of it. And just like all of the other modern miracles that had made his life easier, he knew that without them, at his age and in his condition, he would be lost.
He had not seen Jesse in a week, since he had first stopped by to tell him the news, to tell him that he was his local replacement in the Rangers. Sonny could tell it pained Jesse, irked him to no end to be called back home to take up where his father had left off.
The pail filled quickly, and with a deep breath Sonny heaved it up, and carried it in the house.
He decided to wash up in the sink instead of going to the trouble of filling the tub or heating the water. The idea of indoor plumbing, though he was more than able to afford such a luxury, was not a consideration. He had surrendered enough of his morals to the wonders of the present. The outhouse had been good enough for the first sixty-two years of his life. It’d do just fine for whatever time he had left.
It didn’t take much effort to pull off his T-shirt, and that left him stripped down to his underwear, the same kind of button-down front shorts that he’d worn in the Great War. He left those on and went about washing himself with cold water.
The silence got to him, and he decided to turn the radio back on. “More of the same for today,” the radio announcer said. “But a change is coming. The great predictors of the weather promise rain tomorrow. For how long and how much is anybody’s guess, but more than a drop’ll be welcome . . .”
Sonny smirked. Nothing had changed for weeks and nothing was going to, no matter what the radio said. He’d believe it when he saw it.
They had no choice but to bury the second no-name dead girl next to the first one. There was no grass on either grave. Just hard, dr
y, dirt that would turn to mud if it ever rained. Nothing grew there. It was like the ground was cursed, refusing to go unnoticed. No markers had been erected, just a plate in the ground at the head of each grave to mark it.
The first file had been found and put with the second one. They were almost identical. And no matter the set of eyes that looked upon them, Rangers or locals, they read the same way. They offered no clues to the killer.
But the crows knew everything. They had seen both murders from their hidden perches. They’d watched it all play out, and soon the killings were forgotten by them, too. All that really mattered to the crows was their own story, their own losses, and their own need to eat and kill. What one man did to another was none of their concern—unless it offered them an opportunity to do what crows did: just be crows.
CHAPTER 8
JUNE 27, 1934
There was no food in the house. The larder was empty, vacant of even a tin of flour. The ants had deserted the small root-infested room in search of sustenance elsewhere. All that remained was the earthy, musty smell of slow rot and emptiness.
Upstairs, it smelled like something had already died—or was in the process of dying. Death had stuck its toes inside the front door and wedged it open; its foul breath hung under the ceiling like a thin fog, obscuring any clarity, offering a putrid announcement of things to come.
The roaches rejoiced, were emboldened by the turn of events. They darted about in the light, unafraid of death, instead exploring farther inside the house, into unexplored cracks and crevices. Making a living was easy. More eggs to lay, more legs to scurry about; nothing could stop them now. The flies, just as prolific and joyful, were not rivals to the roaches but peers, equals in their desire to survive and multiply in the decaying environment.
Martha would have thrown a fit, been ashamed of the state of the house. Her German lineage dictated that she be obsessively tidy and organized. A speck of dust was an enemy, rightfully discharged out the front door at the tip of a broom or mop. Roaches were crushed in the cruelest fashion—an extra twist of the shoe a demonstration to others who might be watching, offering a view of their own future if they didn’t skedaddle away as quick as possible. “Tell the others,” Martha would yell as she performed her over-exaggerated squish with wicked relish. There was a hint of an accent at the tip of her tongue. She had tried her best to hide it during the time of war, and even harder afterward. Sneers and whispers of “Kraut” followed her all of her life. She might as well have been a greaser, she’d once said to Sonny on the way home from church. Her prejudices and beliefs were different than his. He ignored them as best as he could, but it became harder as the years accumulated, as her anger and disappointment turned toward him.
He wondered sometimes, silently, of course, if he had ever killed any of Martha’s kin in the old country. It had been a global Civil War, American mixed-bloods fighting their own unknown relatives across the water. He had stopped someone else’s suffering, that’s all he knew. It wasn’t brother against brother, north versus south, but old Germany against the New World. That war was only a memory now, but there would be others. He was sure of it, just like his father had been. Men will fight their own blood into eternity, he had said.
Sonny had dreaded this day. Knew it was coming as the food stock grew thinner and thinner. The last bit of bread came sooner, faster, than he ever thought it would. He had tried to eat as little as possible. The dry mustard was gone now, too.
There was a decision to be made: To live. Which meant go out into the world, get some food, and get on with it—whatever “it” was. Or die. Go to the kitchen table, pick up the loaded .45 that sat waiting for action, put it to his temple, and pull the trigger. End of story. Lights out. No more phantom pains, no more reaching for something with a hand that wasn’t there. No more sorrow. He could never be restored to his former self. It was impossible. No magic medicine existed to regrow arms, hands, or fingers.
The only way to avoid his current situation was to end it or accept it, simple as that. Except, it wasn’t that simple. It was the hardest decision he would ever make. Either way, there was no going back. That was the real decision. Leaving regret behind. It would be easy to be dead. Harder to be alive.
It was time to decide.
He had no desire to starve to death. It was too slow, too passive a way to die. He was not totally broken, not totally incapable. He could still pull a trigger. He had played with the gun, held the cold barrel against his temple in the middle of the dark, cool night. Practice had always been a demand. Ticks of his own lineage. Martha was not any more unusual than he was. Just the opposite.
Sonny drew in a deep breath at the thought, held it in the pit of his lungs for as long as he could, then released it slowly.
It was time to decide.
He listened to the silence, half closed his eyes. The grandfather clock’s long brass pendulum had stopped days ago. It gathered dust now, but time had not stopped along with it.
Outside, it was still morning. The sky was brilliant red with warning as the sun jumped up from the horizon and zoomed toward its apex. There was a promise of rain, of conflict in the sky—a brief storm or a long enduring downpour, Sonny didn’t know for sure. He’d turned off the radio about the time the clock had stopped ticking. He had been into his last can of Van Camp’s beans by then.
His stomach growled, forcing him to open his eyes fully.
Three roaches skittered out of the kitchen sink. Little brown fingerlings full of industry and bravery. He envied them for a moment. Their tiny brains could not dictate anything other than the drive for survival. Find food, have sex, tire out, and die. As far as he knew, there was no act of suicide in the roach world. Did insects know guilt? It was a question he’d never wondered about before.
Sonny glanced to the gun on the table. It sat next to the box that held the prosthetic. He took another breath, exhaled, and decided that he had the stomach for neither life nor death. Not today. He would have to do something with the regret. It would be easier if he could bury it like an old dog that had outlived its usefulness. But it wouldn’t be that easy. He didn’t know how he was going to rid himself of it. He just knew he had to.
Buying the truck had been like buying his last horse. At the time there had been no doubt in Sonny’s mind that the machine would outlive him, that it would be the last set of wheels he’d ever buy. That had been before his encounter with Bonnie and Clyde, while he had still been working as a Ranger with nothing but the coming days of retirement on his mind. Retirement had been a fantasy, and his present reality was a nightmare that he could have never imagined. He had almost been proven right, but, obviously, he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
He stood outside the truck’s door staring inside the interior, wondering how in the hell he was going to drive the damn thing, much less get it started. It wouldn’t have been so hard if the truck was a horse. He could easily control a good-natured mount with one arm and one hand.
Sonny settled into the truck and laid his .45 on the seat next to him. He would never have a chance at Bonnie and Clyde now, but the presence of the gun made him feel better, more whole, even though he had little confidence that he could fire it if he needed to. He’d put on a work shirt that matched his pants. Neither had seen a rub of suds in weeks, but it didn’t matter to him. He was after food, and that was all. He hoped his stink would keep people away from him.
The steering wheel sat waiting. His first inclination was to reach over and pull the spark advance down like he normally would, except he couldn’t, not right-handed. But he’d sworn to himself before stepping foot outside the house that he wasn’t going to fight lost battles with every new step. Doing so over and over again would be another form of hell. Might as well have put the gun to his head and got it over with if he was going to live like that.
Instead, Sonny reached over and pulled the short lever down with his left hand. It was easier, anyway, since the spark advance was on the left side of the steerin
g wheel. Then he reached across the steering wheel to the opposite side and pulled the hand throttle down. Next, he reached over the wheel and turned on the key. So far, so good. The easy part was next. He put his foot on the starter button on the floor, pulled the choke, and turned it. The four-cylinder engine chugged to life immediately, and a wave of relief washed over Sonny. There was no question that starting the truck was easier with his right hand when he had had one, but now he knew it was possible to start the truck with his left hand. That was encouraging.
He quickly adjusted the spark advance to smooth out the engine. All of the cylinders began to purr, waiting for his next command. Sonny was tempted to tap the dash and say, “Good, girl,” but he didn’t. Talking to a horse was one thing, talking to a machine was another. It didn’t seem right. It was like you were talking to yourself.
With a satisfied breath, Sonny released the hand brake, pushed in the clutch, put the engine in gear a little clumsily but successfully, and headed down the short drive to the start of the road.
The first drop of rain hit the windshield, drawing his attention back to the stormy sky. It was gray all the way to the horizon, roiling slightly, like there was a little wind bound up inside the clouds—the red warning had been eaten up, vanished into the growing sheet of anger and precipitation. The sight brought a smile to Sonny’s face. It had been a long time since it had rained. He rolled the window all the way down and breathed in the fresh air as it rushed inside the truck. It was the first time Sonny had felt alive since they’d taken his arm and he wondered, almost out loud, what he had been waiting on to get himself out of the house.
The crows hunkered down as soon as the first hint of wind kicked up and the urge of rain had become a certainty. They did not celebrate the change in weather like other creatures. Drought and struggle brought them a bounty of death to feed off. The taste of carrion did not deter them or offer them the thought that there were better days to come. A few crows longed for the opportunity to raid a nest of eggs, a sweet delicacy only to be found in the spring—and then they had to be shared with the brood, their own and the rest of the gang. With crows, it was one for all and all for one. A network of giving and surviving. Lone crows died quickly. It puzzled them how humans managed by themselves so easily.
A Thousand Falling Crows Page 4