by Sam Cade
Southeast gusts buffeted the heavy Kenworth. Crede passed a bar a couple miles out from town on the left he didn’t even see, the Rusty Anchor. Not a light on.
The GPS said he was close, so Crede backed his speed down to fifteen to try to spot the Lycoming plant through the rain. Wipers were cranked on high but there was still limited visibility. He lowered his driver’s window halfway. Had to see.
He squinted to improve his night vision. Where’s the entrance? He’d been up eighteen hours, eyes fatigued from the drive. There it was. He was right on it, straight beside him on the left. A lit Lycoming sign hung on the building, muted by rainfall.
Dammit. It was a closed entrance with a chain link fence wrapped tight with a bolted chain. He needed to turn around.
Crede drove the rig one more mile. He passed a rickety produce stand on the left advertising watermelon, new potatoes, corn, and peanuts. Place was dead until spring.
Seventy-five yards later he reached a closed Shell station at the U.S. 98 intersection. He twisted the rig left into the gas station entrance, dropped down to second, and snaked out the side exit, bringing him back north on 98 towards the Lycoming plant, a mile away.
He needed to park. The highway was as straight and flat as a yardstick. Drainage ditches, flooded with rainwater, sloped steeply downward two feet from the road. There was no way to edge to the side.
A half mile up from the Shell station, Crede came to a section of road that had an entrance to an open storage barn, thirty yards off the highway. Two mercury vapor lamps on the building illuminated an open structure jammed with farming equipment.
He babied the heavy truck off the road, just missing a small unlit sign he didn’t see.
Oak Hollow Farm.
The truck was now parked five feet off the highway.
He eased into his rain jacket then launched out into night. Rain stung his face like it was fired from a BB gun. He laid out reflective cones forty yards in both directions knowing headlights would fire them alive. The truck flashers stayed on overnight.
Back into the Kenworth, Crede changed into some dry clothes in the sleeper and hung his rain jacket on a hanger to drip dry. He stuck his hand in a plastic sack for a pack of cheese crackers and a Coca Cola and leaned back into soft pillows. He couldn’t sleep without a snack and a book.
A tattered paperback novel was in Crede’s small duffel, The Deep Blue Good-by, the first Travis McGee novel.
A soft cone of light from the reading lamp crossed Crede’s shoulder to illuminate the book. He opened to the rabbit-eared page, the start of chapter seven, placed the book down on his lap, then opened the plastic wrapped cheese crackers which always reminded him of his mother. She called them Nabs. That was fifty-five years ago.
CREDE THOUGHT OF THE LAST DAY HE SAW HER. She told him she was going to the doctor.
“What’s wrong, Mama? Why do you need a suitcase?”
“Oh, baby, it’s my silly old head, sometimes it doesn’t think right. It might take a couple days to get it all better.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, baby, it doesn’t hurt.” She put her small suitcase on the vinyl backseat of the shabby secondhand Ford, climbed in the driver’s seat, rolled down the window.
“Baby, could you run back in and grab me a pack of Nabs and a Co’cola? Might not get lunch on the way.”
Crede raced into the small cottage they called home. It was a sad little lap-sided wooden house that fit the financial spectrum of two rungs below the unionized mill workers.
He was back in less than thirty seconds. “Brought two of each, Mama. I don’t need my Coke and crackers today, don’t want you hungry.”
“Ahhh, baby, come here.”
Crede leaned into the driver’s window on his tiptoes, gave his mother a tight hug, a long one. He loved the smell of her. Clean, like Ivory soap. She was his safe haven.
“You be a good boy, Crede. I love you, son.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
Crede, wearing white high-top P.F. Flyers, no socks, frayed cut-off dungarees, and no shirt, ran behind his mother waving as she pulled out of the sandy dirt driveway onto the rock and tar street. A burst of dark smoke came through the rusty muffler as she punched down on the accelerator. He stopped in the middle of the street and watched until the car left his sight.
CREDE BROUGHT HIS MIND BACK INTO THE KENWORTH. He thought about his boys, his company, his wife.
Alone in this darkness was not a good place for him. He runinated about the inner bleakness he felt most days. Crede never spoke about it with anyone. He knew his life could only be viewed by others as remarkable if not spectacular. But his insides were gray, dull, searching. He never saw life in happy bright yellows, reds, greens and orange like he felt other people did. But he pretended. Always pretended.
His best moments could only be described as not unhappy.
Like his mother, he knew his brain didn’t think right.
Low whistles sounded outside. Angry wind vibrated across cinched down nylon webbing that bound wooden crates of steel to the flatbed.
One damn lonely piece of highway.
Travis McGee held his attention for five minutes. Southeast winds massaged the truck. His thoughts seeped back to his Mama. Nothing new. Every night Crede saw his Mama.
Still felt the pain of the news.
18
Fort Worth, Texas
Monday Night, February 13, 2017
DUDE SCREAMED LIKE AN ANIMAL BEING EATEN ALIVE. Primal. Guttural. Javy Quintana just poured two pints of rubbing alcohol into nine deep gashes on Dude’s back, ass, and legs.
Maribel stepped to the head of the bed frame, took the butt end of the whip and put it against Dude’s head and pushed hard against his skull. “Now you remember me, Mr. Dude?”
Dude, lying across the wooden bed slats, was strapped face down to the four corners of the frame.
He lifted his head, attempted to see through eyes swollen shut from the beating by Luis at the Anchor. A slight grunt was all he had, then his head slung down with gravity, rocking to a stop, his strength evaporated.
“My name’s Maribel. We had a first date three nights ago. Let’s see if I can help your memory.”
Maribel released her fury on Dude for forty minutes. Despite the cold warehouse temperatures, sweat stains appeared on her shirt. Dude no longer screamed. There was no fight left in his body. Maribel wiped the dampness from her face with paper towels.
Javy placed his boot on Dude and gave him a solid push. Nothing but a limp body. He smiled back at his wife. “You got him, baby.”
Maribel leaned over Dude and spat on his back. “Maldito pedazo de mierda.” Fuckin’ piece of shit.
Javy smiled again. “Proud of you, baby. Let’s wrap him in a blanket. I’m gonna come back with Papa and Broyle and take care of the body. Remember, Neiman Marcus tomorrow. Anything you want, baby.”
They untied Dude’s limp body and dropped him onto a blanket. They spun him like a rolling pin. His head was hidden seven inches from the end.
Maribel took a long swig from a bottle of water, then rubbed her damp brow with her forearm. “This shit’s work. Let’s run by Whataburger.”
DUDE’S MIND THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD. He knew he couldn’t live through what just happened.
Total blackness. No light in his eyes. Dead.
Then he heard a door slam.
19
DUDE COULDN’T MOVE HIS ARMS OR LEGS. His odor wanted to suffocate him. He needed some air. His raw wounds felt like fire.
He rocked left. Then tried to push hard to the right. Then left. He went over onto his back. Pushed left, then right, then hard left. And over. Something was coming loose.
Five more turns. He was out of breath, but free.
It took everything he had to stand. He felt through the blackness looking to touch anything. He took short steps, hands in front of him. Thought, how do the blind guys do it? He bumped a table with his knees, brought his hands in front of him. A box. A TV. H
e felt around for buttons, knobs. Found some inside a small compartment door. Started pushing and twisting. The screen came on bright, lighting the room. A commercial was running from a South Fort Worth Ford dealership with a spray tanned maniac screaming about the lowest prices in the known universe on new Mustangs. He thought, I’m in Texas. Made sense, though.
Freezing cold, bleeding and naked, he walked into the main warehouse, found some switches, popped on five sodium vapor lamps high in the ceiling. The space smelled of paint, mineral spirits, and turpentine. It was chock full of industrial tools. Seven scissor lifts lined one wall. Scads of ladders stored against another. And a large basket of dirty painter’s pants and white twill shirts monogrammed with Lone Star Paint Works.
He rummaged out a poor-fitting shirt and pants. They stunk of dirty laundry but he was glad to have them. He taped a towel over each foot.
Dude ravaged desk drawers in an office. No money. Grabbed a vehicle key off a rack. Said Ford 22X. He turned the lights off and walked out into a thirty-six-degree night straight to a lineup of pickups that looked like the second-string bench for a high school basketball team, all with empty ladder racks.
There it was, 22X. He popped the lock, hopped in, was about to hit the key when a sparkle of light hit his eye. In the distance a vehicle headed this way. It was slowing. Awww, hell. Dude slung himself down across the bench seat. Headlights swept through the cab as the vehicle pulled in the parking lot. He went stone still. Tried to slow his breathing.
Blam...Blam...Blam. Three vehicle doors closed. Seconds later he heard the metal warehouse door close.
Slowly, very slowly, he edged his head up until he got the corner of one eye peeking over the dash. It was Broyle William’s F-250.
Five minutes later he heard the office door close again. He watched the men create a quick plan standing by the truck, each man holding a switched-on hyper-bright industrial flashlight. They scrambled into a half-jog going in different directions, lights scanning across walls and lots. The men searched three blocks in each direction. Twenty minutes later they reconvened and hopped in Broyle’s truck.
The big diesel fired. It reversed in a hurry, turned, and sped out of the lot. Gone the same way it arrived. Dude watched the two red rear lights disappear around the corner.
He hit the ignition of the pickup. Popped the heater to high. Gas tank three-quarters full. Slammed it in drive, turned opposite the way Broyle came from and poured some coal to the accelerator.
He drove three blocks. Then hit the headlights.
20
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
DUDE DROVE HARD LOOKING FOR SIGNS TO an interstate. Any interstate. Think, dammit. Needed money. Needed a phone. Needed shoes. Spotted an all-night Exxon, swung in, parked at the back of the building next to a dumpster. It was 2:45 in the morning.
“What the hell happened?” Said the cashier, drawing up a pained look on his own face at the sight before him.
“Car wreck, bad one. Y’all sell maps?”
The clerk pointed. He spotted the towels on Dude’s feet as he walked away.
Dude picked up a Texas map, unfolded it, studied it. All he needed were interstates. He picked a route and memorized it. Interstate 20, running on the southside of Fort Worth touching the southern boundary of Dallas, and on to Shreveport. He hoped the Mexicans figured him for Houston, then I-10, if not lying dead in a ditch.
Dude walked out, shivered as he hit the cold, and saw two vivid-orange Covenant Tree Service trucks at different pumps taking on fuel. Artificial light rained down from the pump canopy like a night game for the Rangers. Big Jesus fish decals were prominently displayed on the trucks. Christians. We’ll see.
He approached one man. “Hate to bother you brother but I’m desperate, could you spare a few bucks?” Guy was maybe twenty-five, stocky, wore a mountain man beard, pointed over his shoulder towards the other truck. “Talk to the boss man.”
Dude walked to an identical looking vehicle, two men leaning on it while diesel fuel flowed like a river into the tank. One had just bought a Bear Claw Danish and a Coke inside. Dude’s mouth watered as he watched the man hold the Danish by the wrapper and eat it like Thanksgiving dinner. Both men eyed Dude warily, not speaking, knew they were about to be hit up.
“Excuse me, sirs, is one of you the boss man?” Dude asked.
“First thing I want to know is what happened?” It was the older man. He didn’t move an inch, his arms were folded across his chest, leaning back on the truck. The younger fellow kept working the Danish and Coke.
“I got beat up by the cops in a tent city, all of us did. They took all our stuff, threw it in a garbage truck and told us to leave town. Trying to get in touch with my brother and get him to send money for me to get home.”
Old guy pointed to the patch on the shirt. “What’s Lone Star Paint Works?”
“Don’t know. I got this at a shelter.” They didn’t see Dude’s truck.
Boss man was maybe sixty, dressed in khakis, still had a headful of dark hair. “I want to know something, son. This is the most important question in your life.”
Dude nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you know the Lord?”
Why lie? “No, sir, I don’t.”
“Well, the Lord feeds his sheep. I’m talking about the Bread of Life and Living Water that saves each one of us from the lake of fire. Christ died for your sins and mine.”
Dude nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“Will ten dollars help you?”
“Yes, sir, greatly.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Robert Carl.”
“Gonna pray over you, boy. Paul, come over here with me and Levi. Gonna pray for Robert Carl.”
All three men laid a hand on Dude’s shoulder. The Boss man prayed. “Heavenly Father, I pray you strike Robert Carl’s heart, Lord, wake up his lost soul that is leading him to eternal death. Lord, bless his journey home and into a local congregation of your earthly shepherds and saints. Amen.”
Boss man opened the truck door, reached across the seat and grabbed a small red Bible from a stack. He took out his wallet, pulled out two fifties, flipped through the Bible to the first book of the New Testament, slid the cash in. “Start reading here. The book of Matthew.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you.” Dude hugged the boss, went in the store, bought four bear claws and a large Coke.
After the men left, Dude turned right out of the lot heading east, entered I-30 East and slipped onto I-820 south to I-20 East. Still dark, traffic light before rush hour kicks in in less than two hours.
Had to disappear. Forever. He was a dead man, otherwise.
Gotta warn Ella.
21
Black Point, Alabama
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
THE MIDNIGHT XANAX DID NOTHING. Ella Codger’s eyes were frozen wide open, raked with spidery red vessels. Her white-hot rage held on like it had claws.
The trailer bedroom was coal cellar black and thirty-one degrees. It was thirty minutes past four in the morning.
One thought. Only one.
How can one bad decision nine years ago fuck up your whole life?
Bobby Carl Codger, that’s how. That’s one damn lying motherfucker. The way she figured it he had this shit coming.
Storm winds blasted Ella’s trailer through the night as bitter weather roared into coastal Alabama. Icy cold drafts grabbed the rickety unit like pliers from all sides, then went to work prying through fissures to rip into the family’s skin like sharp cat teeth.
“What’s that, Mama?” It was Bobby Carl, Jr., Dude’s son. “Somebody’s trying to get in...they keep hitting the trailer.” Forty-year old salt corroded screws gave way to the sharp gusts driving the loose aluminum sheathing to slap the trailer like a seven-year old with a new set of drums.
“It’s just wind, baby,” said Ella.
“No, it’s not, Mama. Turn the light on.”
The utilities were disconnected. There
was no light.
Rain turning to sleet was predicted by 7:30 a.m. in Black Point. Coldest winter the upper Gulf Coast has seen in fifty-two years.
At eighteen Ella had a life plan. Two years of school, then a four-day workweek as a well-paid dental hygienist. Now she had a crap job, low money, and high responsibility. Life unraveled when she stumbled over Bobby Carl’s dick.
For three days there was no heat, no working stove, and no hot water in the trailer. The bills were weeks overdue. Bobby Carl handled the trailer bills and food. But this crap was a new low.
Ella lingered in bed this morning. Abigail and Carly snuggled up on each side of her, both hidden from sight under three lightweight Dollar General blankets. The girls were sour. Ella was rancid. No one had bathed in days.
Six-year old Bobby Carl, Jr. snuggled in a sleeping bag on the floor next to the bed. He was at his wit’s end over the storm.
Ella slid her flip phone out from under her pillow and cracked it open. Twenty-four percent battery life left. Juice wasn’t the issue. Time was. She’d been receiving texts...bill overdue...service disconnection 7:00 a.m., February 14. Today.
She slipped out of the bed and felt her way through the hall darkness into the front of the trailer. She couldn’t let the kids hear. Ella dialed her husband, a lowlife who’d rather buy reefer than keep his family warm.
Five rings then it hit voicemail. “It’s Dude, you know the drill.”
“Fuck your drill, Dude,” said Ella. “The trailer heat’s out. We’re freezing to death! Sick of this silent treatment shit. Where the hell are you?”
She thought, Dude. Laughable. Some name Bobby Carl came up with in elementary school after he saw Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski. Ella slipped back in bed so mad she was shaking.
“Mama, it’s going to explode. Sounds like one of those trash crushers.” BC, Jr. was awake with his flashlight on. Ella saw his breath when he spoke.
“What, baby?” said Ella.
She knew what. Over the last hour the trailer groaned like a state fair spook ride. Her mind pictured news footage of tornado decimated trailer parks with the empathetic spray-tanned News Guy talking into the mike wishing he could say those poor dumb bastards.