Benny barely got the door of the van open before puking. Benny puked for a long time before he was able to get Becky’s pants back up. He didn’t bother buttoning them.
He lay on the van’s floor. Waves of nausea, waves of shame and disgust surging through him. Benny was horrified by what he’d just done. By the monster he’d become. And, even more horrific, as he played the scene over and over in his mind, Benny found, in the company of shame, however slight, a wicked undeniable satisfaction. Somewhere, at the edge of sleep, he heard Jeeter’s motorcycle crank and rev. The familiar sound settled into his semi-consciousness and comforted him. Finally, Benny knew, in that moment, what he had to do. He had to tell Jeeter everything. About watching Jenna drown. About the tapes. About lying, to Becky, to him, to everybody. About the goats. He made a promise to himself; he’d tell Jeeter everything. Everything. He’d go out to Jeeter’s house the next afternoon and tell him everything. And ask for his help.
Shortly after hearing Jeeter leave on the motorcycle, Benny slept.
Benny and Becky both woke, startled, to the sound of pounding. Someone pounding on the door of the van.
Pounding. And pounding.
“What!” Benny said.
“Hey, man,” someone answered. Benny didn’t recognize the voice.
“What do you want?”
“You got a dog?”
Benny rose and opened the door. Becky watched groggily.
“Don’t you have a dog? An old dachshund?”
“Why?” Benny said, worried.
“You better come here,” the man said, and walked off without waiting for an answer.
Benny followed, spitting and spitting on the ground, well into the walk before remembering to zip his pants.
The man led him around the buildings to the barbecue pit where the two pigs were cooked the night before. When Benny walked up the man pointed at the pit.
“What?” Benny asked.
No answer. None needed. There in cool lifeless coals lay the body of his old dog Squat. Equally cool and lifeless. What had happened was plain to see. After smoldering all evening and into the night, the embers had died and gone cold sometime in the wee hours of the party. The pigs, delicious as they were, were too big to be eaten completely. They were picked at and gouged from until everyone had their fill, then abandoned on their spits. Everyone had their fill, except Squat. The good dog recognized an opportunity. Benny could almost imagine the valiant effort needed for him, and his stubby little arthritic legs to climb up into the carcass of that cooked pig. Benny could imagine the slick and oily sensation—no doubt heavenly—of being surrounded by meat, slow-roasted meat. And Squat ate, all the way through, from one end of the pig to the other. Gorged. Glutted. And when the dog fell out the other end of that pig, greased up and sated, it must’ve been more joy than his tiny but mighty canine heart could stand. Squat died. Right there. In the gray ash and chunks of charcoal. Inches from where he’d exited the carcass of the barbecued pig.
Chapter 23
When the phone rang later that morning, Benny figured it was Becky, calling to apologize for not saying a goddamn word on the ride home from Gnogg’s place. When the phone rang, he figured that she’d been freaked out by the presence of Squat’s dead body lying in the back on an old blanket. That’s why she acted so damn weird. When the phone rang, he expected to explain that he’d have to go to Jeeter’s that afternoon and build a casket for his dog. When the phone rang, he picked it up, ready to forgive.
“Yeah.”
“Benny?”
“Who’s this?”
“Nub.”
“Hey, Nub.”
“Listen, I’m real sorry, son.”
“Well … he was a good old dog. Lived a long life.”
“What are you talking about, Benny?”
“Squat.”
“What about Squat?”
“Squat died. What are you talking about?”
“Jeeter.”
Benny took a deep breath. Jeeter. Jeeter died?
“Jeeter died?”
“You don’t know?”
“Jeeter’s dead?”
“No. No, Benny. Jeeter ain’t dead. He ain’t the same, but so far he’s still alive.”
Benny sat back in his kitchen chair; it creaked and groaned under the burden.
“What happened?” Benny asked.
“He wrecked his motorcycle.”
Benny could hear Honey crying in the background.
“Where?” he asked. “When?”
“Out on Plank. Sometime before daylight. Ran right off the road. And…”
“Yeah?” Benny said.
“They was a girl with him.”
“Is she? …”
“Killed.”
“And Jeeter?”
Nub sucked air between his teeth.
“Just don’t know yet, Benny. If he lives, he ain’t likely to walk.”
Fuck.
“Do they know what happened?”
“No. Not really. It was a straight stretch of road.”
“Maybe he hit a deer or a possum or something.”
“No. No sign of that. Looks like he just drove off the pavement. The bike is a mess. Forks is caved in and the seat and tank are all burned up. They almost didn’t find the girl. Thro’d her up into a bunch of pine trees.”
A long silence.
“He’s at Mercy,” Nub finally said. “Intensive Care.”
Benny dug the hole because the hole had to be dug. Even in the cool October air, Squat was drawing flies and beginning to stink, over and above the smells of cooked pig and old dog. As he worked the shovel into the soil, Benny thought about the vow he’d made the night before in the back of his van, his promise to tell Jeeter the secrets. Doubtful, now, the keeping. He dug it in the back corner of the lot at the duplex. And because the rocky root-filled soil fought back so, Benny’s hands bled by the time he’d finished.
No casket. No ceremony. Nothing, but the dead dog wrapped in a filthy blanket.
Two hours later, unwashed, Benny felt himself sucked into the antiseptic and fluorescent space of the Mercy Emergency Room. And when he made it as far as the nurses’ station in the ICU, they turned him away.
“You can’t come in here like that. Go home and clean up.”
• • • • •
Benny intended to go home. He did not, definitely did not intend to go to Claxton Looms. When he opened the door, he looked for Becky in the fish tank, as he’d seen her that first day. And not finding her there, skulked into the office. Becky, too, sent him home.
She refused to talk to him. Benny left without telling her about Jeeter or the girl.
Still, Benny did not go home. Not yet. He went, instead, to Jeeter’s. To feed the fish. To look around. To cry, even, although that was unplanned, too. Benny wandered around Jeeter’s compound, scaled back just a little since the storm hit in the summer, but still impressive in its scope. It took a while before he got the nerve to go into the house. He planned to get Jeeter some things. A toothbrush, maybe. A few motorcycle magazines.
The shades were pulled, and once inside, Benny stood until his eyes adjusted to the dark. But even in the dark he knew the lay of Jeeter’s home. The door of the narrow trailer, off-center by several yards, opened into a space, more theoretical than real, between the kitchen and living room-dining room combo. To the immediate right, a crowded bathroom and laundry area all but blocked entry into a tiny bedroom anchoring that end of the trailer. The other way, left, led to a slightly larger bathroom, a room Jeeter used as an office-cum-den, and his bedroom. And his bedroom is where Benny stood, opening and closing the dresser drawers, when the police scanner barked from the nightstand, terrifying him.
Dispatch to Animal Con
trol.
Benny’s heart whipped itself into a frenzy.
Go ahead, Dispatch.
He’d forgotten about the scanner. Jeeter used to drive a tow truck; he’d listen for accidents, then head to the scene.
Be advised, several chickens loose on the interstate, exit 7. The Cracker Barrel exit.
The radio scared him so bad, Benny forgot why he’d come. So he left, empty-handed. Almost. Benny pocketed the three dollar bills and handful of change that lay in a little fish-shaped bowl on Jeeter’s dresser. Then, finally, Benny went home and showered.
Back at the hospital, the nurses were okay with his level of hygiene, but almost refused to let Benny in to see Jeeter for a number of other reasons.
“He doesn’t have any family,” Benny said. “Can I just sit with him for a few minutes? Please?”
As unconscious as he was, Jeeter seemed in complete control of the high-tech vessel he lay perfectly still, and elevated slightly, in the center of. Benny could make no sense of the lights and sounds. And the smell …
He’d planned to stay all night, to sleep in the waiting room, but the sight of his friend, helpless, pale, stripped of all the fire and fervor that defined him, drove Benny away. Jeeter living, Jeeter dying. Which will it be? And who says? Jeeter, at the mercy of … what? So much nothing.
Past dinnertime. Benny ought to be hungry, but wasn’t. What day of the week was it? Maybe Friday. Maybe not. When he pulled into the Touch-less bay at Dink’s Clean ‘em Up, Benny’s was the only vehicle on the property. Dink climbed into the passenger side, ready. And a valiant effort Dink made to do what was expected of him in the allotted time period. Three to five minutes had always been enough. But when the DRIVE FORWARD SLOWLY light glowed, Benny hadn’t ejaculated yet. Not even close. He yanked Dink’s head out of his lap just as the automatic door started its clanking rise.
“Get the fuck away from me!” Benny said.
Dink didn’t answer. He’d dealt with rage before.
“Get out, Dink! Get the fuck out of my van, now!”
He did, without complaint. Without payment.
As Benny squealed out of the parking lot, the van’s rear end fishtailing, he saw another car pull into the bay, and behind it, still another lined up. Must be Friday night, he thought. Must be Friday night. Must be. Benny pulled to a stop at a pay phone, one he could reach without getting out of the van. And he dialed 911.
“Buffalo Shoals Police. Is this an emergency?’
Benny, as if there were need, changed his voice. Pitched it way back in his throat.
“Hey, some retard just tried to give me a blowjob over at that car wash over on Pine Boulevard. Said he’d do it for five bucks.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“I seen some other cars there. I bet he’s sucking away right now.”
Benny hung up. He drove away.
Nub and Honey sat, amid the flowers, all bunched to one side of Jeeter’s hospital room. Benny knew the second he walked in the door that he’d never be able to tell Jeeter anything. Ever.
“Hey, sugar,” Honey said. She’d been crying.
“Hey, Honey.”
“They said he come to a little bit last night,” Nub said.
“Y’all been here long?” Benny asked.
“Not too long.”
Then, mostly, they just sat. Nurses came and went, attended to the machine of Jeeter’s body and to the machines that, at the moment, allowed his machine to operate. The array of tubes and wires and pipes and bags, connected to, inserted in, or hanging near Jeeter’s body—each giving or taking something—dizzied Benny.
“Y’all hungry?” Benny asked. Asked in part because the sound of his traumatized friend’s breathing—a grating shallow inhalation and a barely perceptible grunt each time he exhaled—became all but unbearable. Benny wanted out of the room.
“I could use a bite,” Nub said.
“Me, too,” said Honey.
“I’ll go down to the canteen and get us some sandwiches.”
“You sit right here, Benny,” Honey said. “Me and Nub’11 go. I need to stretch these old legs, anyway.”
And their departure must’ve been some sort of subconscious cue for Jeeter to open his eyes.
“Jeeter?” Benny said softly, going to stand bedside. “Hey, buddy.”
Clearly, there was little in the way of focus or recognition behind those eyes.
“How you doin’?” Benny asked.
In answer, Jeeter’s eyes rolled back, showing swaths of the bloodshot whites, then his lids closed over them.
Benny stood by the bed a while longer. Stood there thinking. Was standing there thinking when he felt an arm ease around his waist.
“Hey, sexy. I got something to show you.”
“Hey, Doodle.”
Up to that point, Benny hadn’t cried. But when he turned into Doodle’s hug, he could not hold back the single sob, nor the tears that followed it. Doodle, always good at that sort of thing, held tight. Told him it was okay. Then they sat, catching up, until Nub and Honey came in with the sandwiches. Nub, Honey, and Benny each offered Doodle their sandwich.
“No,” she said. “Thank you anyway, but I’ve already ate.”
She stood to leave, patted Jeeter’s very still leg, then kissed Benny on the cheek.
“You gonna be around this weekend?” she asked.
“Probably,” Benny said. “Why?”
“Might have to ask you a favor.”
“You know where to find me.”
Benny, at home and tired, found himself reaching beneath his bed for the milk crate containing the drowned girl’s belongings. There was only one tape left to watch: “Untitled.April 3, 2001.” The tape that she’d left running in the camera. The tape of Jenna walking into the Toe River.
He sat in his rocker, feet propped on the ottoman. Benny hesitated for a split-second before pushing Play, trying to remember if he’d fed Squat. Then he remembered he didn’t have to feed Squat. Benny rewound the tape to its beginning.
April 3, 2001 • • • Rec
1:00 a.m.
Jenna, pale, tired, thin, sitting in her apartment at the kitchen table, looking at the camera.
“My name is Jenna. Jenna Hinkey.”
She pauses, too long, between each phrase.
“I am an artist. I make films.”
She drinks from a cup; her hands—bandages gone, a gap where her missing fingers ought to be—shake.
“I have made a mistake. I was confused. So confused.”
Jenna talks about her confusion, her various states of mind, as if they were visitors. Relatives who show up at her door unannounced, steamer trunks and duffel bags in tow, ready to catch up on all the family gossip.
“For a long time, I thought you made a self by adding to what you started with. I know, now, that subtraction is the only way to build a true self.”
April 3,2001 ••• Rec
7:40 a.m.
The monologue continues.
“It’s all about taking away. About not holding on.”
Jenna, slurring and mumbling from time to time, talks and talks.
April 3, 2001 • • • Rec
3:37 p.m.
The Toe River rushes by, fills the picture frame. In the distance, the base of the Bard’s Communication tower rises out of the field of vision. And off to one side, the blurry image of an orange van.
Benny paused the tape, not sure he was ready for what lay ahead. Where did the hours go? She’d been at her apartment in the morning, then nothing until the camera sat by the river. He needed more explanation. Did she make her plans then? How far in advance did she know what she had to do? Were there good-byes? Reasons. Understanding. But he knew none w
ould be forthcoming. He knew because he had seen.
Visits from the Drowned Girl Page 26