“It’s the same as the hotel from the movie I watched yesterday!”
Budge propped himself up a little and squinted at the set. “Well yeah. That’s the Opry House outside of Beatty. I know they used to shoot a lot of two reelers there before National went bust.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Nah, that was before my time.”
“I want to go there,” said Florian, and this was a remarkable statement because Florian rarely expressed wants beyond his bible and beads.
Budge groaned as he sat up to grab another cookie. “I’ll take you out there some afternoon. It’s a ghost town you know. Called Centenary. We can poke around the old buildings.”
“A ghost town?”
“Yup.”
Florian put his hand on the back of his creased neck. He said, “I want to live there.”
Audrey listened from the kitchen as she made bologna and cheese sandwiches, a compromise between Florian’s and Budge’s favorites. She wanted them to spend time together. She wanted them to get along. She wanted her odd little family to succeed. Despite Budge’s jealousy, and perhaps because of it, he was settling into the big brother role quite naturally.
“You hear that, Auntie Aud? Florian wants a change of scenery.”
Of course she’d heard. She stepped into the threshold of the front room, a rag in her hand. She frowned at Florian, who was hypnotized by the television. She asked him, “Aren’t you happy here, Florian?”
Florian didn’t seem to hear her.
Budge grinned at his Aunt. She was nothing if not a superstitious old bat. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he laughed. “Not everything that comes out of his mouth is some kind of prophecy.”
Audrey gave her nephew a stern look. “Do you know how to find this town?”
“Ghost town,” he reminded her. “Means nobody lives there.”
“Sounds ideal,” Audrey said.
THE MAYOR
Chapter 11
October, 1958: Centenary, NV
Budge compromised. Instead of spending his evening warming a barstool in Beatty, he bought some beer and spent his first night in Centenary drinking inside Audrey’s Roadmaster, parked on the edge of the campsite where he could look out over the ghost town below. Audrey disapproved but backed down when Budge said, “I’m a grown man, Auntie Aud. You don’t expect me to bunk with you all, reading comic books and hitting the sack by eight?”
They’d arrived at Centenary in time to watch a spectacular sunset, but Florian had a tantrum when he learned that they would not be visiting the Opera House until the morning. He had eventually calmed down, and now Florian and Audrey were snug inside the “The Flying Cloud,” a silver Airstream camper Budge borrowed from a buddy. It was parked on a flat spot off High Street beyond the terminal end of the rail line. Originally intended for loading and unloading freight cars that never came, the clearing had been converted to a campsite bordered by two abandoned rail cars, a pit toilet, and a pile of rusted metal scrap.
There were two other trailers on the site. One was inhabited by a young colored family Audrey declared to be “lovely people,” but the other trailer was unoccupied, possibly abandoned.
When Budge left to buy his beer, the colored family was trying to get a fire lit inside a stone ring. It looked like they didn’t have enough wood for the project, but then all of a sudden the little teepee of sticks caught. Sighs and applause followed. By the time Budge returned, the family was just finishing up their wiener roast. He pulled up in the Roadmaster and let the driver’s side door swing open so he could anchor one boot to the ground as he cracked his first can of Blatz. He made a point of toasting the family. They went inside their trailer soon after that.
It was mid-autumn, not too hot, and the night was deep as hell. Budge’s intention had been to haul his Aunt and Florian out to the desert for a weekend so they could shake off the fantasy of Centenary. The ghost town had consumed their imaginations, and they wouldn’t shut up about it. Now that he was out there himself, Budge had to admit to Centenary’s decrepit appeal. All those broken buildings used to be full of people. It reminded him of a story he read in Gents magazine about how scientists made everyone immortal, but in the trade-off no one could have babies anymore. Forever after, the immortals kept researching the past, having become obsessed with all the people, any people, who weren’t around anymore. The dead were celebrities just because they were gone. It was a damned good story.
Budge wondered if the kids across the way were frightened of Florian. His Auntie’s ward both looked and acted like a troll, with his muttered prayers and inability to sustain eye contact. He bet that the kids, two slender boys, were huddled in their sleeping bags with flashlights telling each other stories about the strange little bible man who might peek in on them as they slept.
This was the thought Budge carried with him as he drowsed, falling asleep much sooner than he expected. Clean air could do that to a man, just lay him out. He crumpled onto the seat, still in his jacket and boots, the side of his face sweating into the stitched vinyl upholstery. When nearby shuffling woke him, he almost shouted. Another car had arrived at the campsite, and it was long past midnight. Budge straightened up, and rubbed at the pattern pressed into his cheek while he watched the car roll slowly towards the pit toilet. As far as Budge could make out, the vehicle was a Buick like Aud’s but a much older model.
The driver cut the headlights and parked in front of the unoccupied trailer. When he stepped out, he opened the door to the backseat and leaned in as a boy climbed out and stood close by. The man continued to rummage, gathering together items that were obviously unpacked, a blanket, some clothes, and a box that might have come from a deli.
The boy was useless, probably only barely awake. He was a tall kid, certainly too tall for the pajamas he wore, which were white with some kind of repeated print that resembled dinner hams. The kid’s hair was so mussed it looked like a bad wig.
The man finally gathered his armload and took it into the trailer. It was unlocked. He left the door open and the boy didn’t seem to know what was expected of him. He turned and raised a hand to wave at Budge before he was called inside with a single urgent word: “Jub.”
Jub. Hammy Jammies was called Jub. Budge didn’t like that information. He knew it would somehow sneak into his nightmares the next time he had them. Budge crawled out of the Roadmaster and made his way towards the edge of the campsite to relieve himself in a ditch full of slag and other debris. Pissing under the stars—it truly was a wonderful world.
“Pardon, brother.”
Budge flinched, buttoned himself back up. He turned and saw that it was the man from the spooky trailer with the spooky kid, but alone this time. He was in work clothes—long pants and a long sleeved shirt with his name stitched on the pocket: Bill.
Budge said, “What can I do for you, son?”
Son, brother. The ways men try to contain other men.
“Can I buy one of those beers from you? It’s been a long ride.”
An empty can had slipped out onto the dirt outside the Roadster, giving Budge away. Embarrassed, he gave “Bill” two beers and refused the offer of coins. “You buy next time,” he said.
The shadow man nodded once. “Agreed.” He popped open one can and drained it in three swallows.
“Take her easy.”
“Can’t drink in front of the kid,” the man explained.
Budge grabbed the last can out of the car and rejoined his dark friend. “He a sensitive boy?”
“Very.”
“Well there’s kids in that trailer there. He might strike up a friendship with them. Colored, but nice.”
Both men nodded.
“And there’s my Aunt and Florian in ours. Florian is a little slow, but he’s harmless.” Unless you’re his mommy.
Nods again. Swallows, too.
“So.”
“Yessir.”
Budge w
as feeling unreasonably drunk. “What kinda name is Jub, anyway?
The can was dropped, crushed under foot. “What kind of name is Budge?”
Budge was about to ask the man how he knew his name when suddenly Bill was no longer there. Budge awoke standing on High Street at the edge of the drop-off, his pants open and his penis cold. His thigh a little damp. One step and he would have gone over.
The moon was brown behind a veil of mackerel clouds.
“Fucking dreams,” said Budge. Jub was just Budge backwards, wasn’t it? He returned to the Roadster to finish the night, feeling childish relief when he saw the other Buick parked in front of the last trailer. At least he hadn’t dreamed that.
* * *
Come morning, Budge was awakened by the smell of coffee and the rough sounds of adults coughing in the pure, cool air. Everyone was awake already, and as he crawled out of the Roadster’s back seat he saw that the occupants of all three trailers had formed a little breakfast community around the fire ring. Bill and the colored couple sat in chairs around orange embers, and Audrey carried pecan rolls on a melmac platter for all to share. Florian followed her wherever she went. He was fully dressed in his yellowing shirt and suspenders.
The two little boys chased each other, still in their drawers and immune to the morning chill. Poor Jub sat on a camp stool like the adults, wrapped in an army blanket. He smiled shyly each time one of the other boys careened near him in their rule-free game of chase and swat.
The grownups were drinking coffee from a tin pot.
“Morning.” Budge’s eyes felt like they were full of glue.
The boys stopped running. They were identical, but one was a hand taller than the other. It was clear that they had been waiting for Budge to emerge from his automobile cave.
The taller boy asked, “You really an actor?”
Budge attempted to focus on the child, but there was an egg-white halo surrounding him. There were halos surrounding everyone and everything in fact. “I been in a few movies.”
“And TV shows?”
“Yup.”
Florian stopped trailing Audrey, who in her unofficial role as hostess checked on everyone’s coffee and tucked Jub’s blanket a little tighter around his pale face. This talk of movies and shows inspired Florian to jam his fingers deep inside his front trouser pocket. Budge hoped no one noticed his Auntie’s pet exercising his compulsions.
The boys began to rattle off all the programs they could ever remember watching:
“Were you in Star Blast?”
“No.”
“Were you in Lassie?”
“No.”
“Were you in Ruff and Reddy?”
“That’s a cartoon.”
The boys didn’t see why that made any difference at all. Florian had been listening to their interrogation and blurted out, “My mother was a star.”
The fear of being found out lit Auntie Aud’s face, so Budge stepped forward and gave Florian a hard rub along the shoulders. “We excited to go to the Opry House, buddy?” Florian squirmed under the heavy touch, and Budge ignored him to join the rest of the adults around the fire. He took a tin cup of coffee.
The parents of the boys were Doris and George, and they were indeed “lovely.” Bill introduced himself as Theo. He and Jub still wore the same clothes they’d arrived in the evening before, but now Budge could see there was no “Bill” nametag sewn on the breast pocket of Theo’s shirt, and there was no sign that there ever had been.
Guarded handshakes all around, except for Jub. Jub remained un-introduced. Budge guessed the kid was eleven or twelve.
Budge settled into a folding chair and ate two of Aunt Audrey’s pecan rolls. She seemed to have an endless supply. The younger boys resumed their game while Florian watched, apparently fingering himself.
The coffee was gritty magic with each sip sweeping away the haloes of Budge’s hangover. He leaned forward to capture the attention of Doris and George, who seemed concerned about Florian’s behavior. Budge explained, “He’s very religious. Carries a rosary in his front pocket.”
They weren’t entirely convinced. Theo was watching Florian as well, but in a different way. Budge could tell Theo recognized Florian Beale, but for the moment the man would keep his knowledge to himself. For some reason, matricidal maniacs didn’t worry Theo one bit.
Budge asked him, “You keep your camp here year round?”
Theo said, “It’s handy.”
The man wasn’t about to elaborate, so Budge attempted to engage young Jub. “You like to go on adventures with your old man?”
The question seemed to upset the boy. He said, “He’s not old.”
What was it with these kids and the back talk? “That’s not really an answer to my question, kiddo.”
Jub squirmed a little under his blanket before he shifted on his camp stool, turning so that he did not have to face any more questions. Doris and George were embarrassed, but Theo wasn’t. He almost grinned.
That near grin tipped it. Budge said, “Great. That’s just great. Anyone else want to treat me like shit for breakfast?” Jub flinched at the cuss word.
“Budge!” said Audrey.
He stood and raised his palms in that uniquely American gesture that blended the sentiments of I’m sorry and Back the hell off.
He called out to his only ally. “Florian, my man. Quit playing with yourself and let’s get going. The Opry House awaits.”
* * *
Florian sobbed like a baby, and Budge wanted to kick himself. He and Aud should have prepared him better. Not only was the Opera House padlocked, it was also surrounded by a construction fence. No one was allowed to go in or out unless they were connected to the syndicate that had bought the dump. According to the signage, the building was slated for restoration. Budge recognized the contractor as one that built hotels and casinos throughout the state. “Restoration” was a probably a liberal term, then. In desperation, Budge drove the Roadmaster up as close to the fence as they could get, so he and Florian could climb up on it to try to get a look through one of the high windows.
The place was gutted. The only hint of its former glory was the remains of the pink roof. A few tiles were still intact, forming islands on a dark sea of tarpaper.
“It’s okay Flo. There’s a lot of other interesting junk around here.”
Florian wept and wheezed. Budge tried to be patient, but he was unpracticed. “It’s a ghost town, man. It’s all broken. That’s what it means.”
Florian shook his head. It was as if nothing else mattered. Budge had seen him fuss before, but nothing on this scale. He needed to get the fellow back to Auntie Audrey as soon as possible. She would know what to do.
Florian put his arms over his head, exposing his stained pits and straining at the seams of his shirt. He looked like he was trying to defend himself from an attack by birds. Budge tried to guide him back into the car, but Florian shook him off. His face was tear-streaked, and he gave off a musky, stressed animal odor. He reached into his pocket, rummaging deep as he had done before. This time Budge could see that Florian was wearing his rosary beads under his shirt. His hand worked harder in the pocket.
“Hey, cut that out man. That’s not copasetic.”
Florian stopped and tried to look into Budge’s eyes, but he could only bear it for a second or two. He removed his hand from his pocket to show his new brother what he had done.
Florian’s fat fingers could barely contain the two huge emeralds. He gripped them like a pair of farm eggs.
“Jesus, Florian. What is going on here?”
“They returned her to me. After the trial.”
“Holy shit.” The Juliet. Budge had always assumed the stones had been seized by the government or put in a museum, but technically, they did belong to Florian, didn’t they? And here he was, just walking around with them in his filthy pockets.
Budge almost asked him, did Audrey know, but then he rea
lized of course she did. That’s why she took Florian in. She thought she was going to get her hands on those green beauties someday.
Oh, Auntie Aud.
Budge felt a little winded. Surprise plus the air in Centenary was as good as a session on the heavy bag. “Shouldn’t you keep those in a safe deposit box?”
The question was almost too complex to answer, but Florian tried. “Audrey said no. We keep them in the owls.”
The owls. Audrey prized her two hideous glass owls from Avon. They were squat containers shaped like mongoloid versions of the night birds with gold painted metal lids. They contained bath oil beads that, as Budge recalled, were emerald green. She kept them on display on the shelf in her bathroom and said the beads were for guest use only.
They never had any guests.
Genius. She hid the halves of The Juliet in those bath bead jars. How many times had Budge taken a shit staring at those ugly owls?
And no safe deposit box. Audrey was playing a long game, one in which Florian and The Juliet would someday be forgotten, along with their histories of death and mayhem.
“Why did she let you bring these out here of all places?”
Florian looked scared.
Budge guessed the answer. “She doesn’t know.”
“I must get rid of them. Before she gets hurt.” Florian was talking about the curse. He loved Audrey Lange. She was his new mother, after all.
The shadow cast by the Opera House was thinning as Budge tried to figure out his stake in this mess. Aud had raised him, and they should have been partners. Maybe she was planning to tell him about the emeralds one day, but maybe she wasn’t. Had she’d taken Florian in because she was a good woman or was she looking for a payoff like everyone else?
Budge said, “So you thought you should bring The Juliet back home.”
“Mr. Oliver won her in a card game with an old man. The old man lived in the Opera House.”
That didn’t sound right, but Budge wasn’t going to argue. “Put them back in your pocket. We’ll find a better place to hide them.”
The Juliet Page 24