Settright Road

by Jon Boilard

  SETTRIGHT ROAD

  SETTRIGHT ROAD

  STORIES

  JON BOILARD

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  SETTRIGHT ROAD. Copyright © 2017, text by Jon Boilard. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Boilard, Jon, author.

  Title: Settright road : stories / by Jon Boilard.

  Description: Ann Arbor, MI : Dzanc Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016017550 | ISBN 9781941088623

  Subjects: LCSH: City and town life--Massachusetts--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3602.O47 A6 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016017550

  First US edition: January 2017

  Interior design by Michelle Dotter

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and names appearing in this work are a product of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  JUST THE THING

  SIX STONES DOWN THE MOUNTAIN

  DARK DAYS

  STORM CHASER

  THE MOHAWK TRAIL

  SETTRIGHT ROAD

  NICE SLEEP

  BARNYARD

  CUT ME IN PIECES AND HIDE

  NUTS

  I WON’T WEAR BLACK

  FLUNKY

  MOON OR HEAVEN

  STAY WHERE YOU ARE

  WATCH OUT, TOWNIE BOY

  DAMN THE WIND

  MAIN STREET INCIDENT

  LISTEN TO THAT TRAIN WHISTLE BLOW

  SOMETIMES THERE’S GOD

  FURTHERMORE: ADDITIONAL READING

  For Dad, Susie, and Uncle Meatball

  Fear not them which kill the body, but are not

  able to kill the soul.

  Matthew 10:28

  JUST THE THING

  I sniff paint thinner in Bobby the Killer’s garage. I’m supposed to be mowing the lawn, and he’ll be pissed. I’m only living with him because he’s banging my Aunt Haylie and she has custody. They met when he fixed the tranny on her car—a two-door, four-cylinder rice burner with a hatchback. She couldn’t get it out of first gear. He’s got a little shop in a barn behind the garage where I’m sitting on a stack of studded snow tires and looking out the busted window.

  The sky is strange, a crack of blue and clouds and pink. The glass-faced thermostat reads ninety-nine degrees and the humidity is always a bitch this time of year. I can hear him pounding on an alternator with a rubber mallet. It’s an old red-rusted Jeep. It’s just me and Bobby right now because Aunt Haylie is slinging beers over to the VFW. She used to dance at the Castaway Lounge but the Greek told her she was too fat for that anymore. She cried from bed for three days straight. Then she met Bobby. He’d just moved down from Turners Falls.

  He’s different, she said to me. It’s gone to be different. You’ll see.

  Maybe I don’t want it to be different.

  But this might be just the thing.

  Those are only words, I said. You used the exact same ones last time.

  That conversation was two months ago and now I guess we’re all settled in.

  I look at the lawn mower and it’s not moving. I look at the grass outside and it’s not getting any shorter. We don’t have much of a yard really. Patches of green and dirt and stones and little tufts of blond that remind me of cunt hair. Tools hang from the wall on nails bent this way and that. A bag of fertilizer. Some weed choker. A red gas can. A few old buckets of paint.

  I always know when Bobby the Killer is nearby because he smokes skinny drugstore cigars called Swisher Sweets and he stinks of them. Right now he’s standing in the doorway with his thumbs in his pockets. The knuckles are missing skin, and his arms are missing pigment.

  What the fuck, he says, shaking his head.

  I tell him I’m taking a break.

  He makes a fist with his right hand like in slow motion, holding it down by his hip. Then he opens it and shakes his fingers loose like from a spider web nobody else can see. A blue vein throbs on the side of his cow-skull head. A cigar sticks out from the straight line that is his mouth. He chews the end of it, looks at me for a minute. I smile back at him but not nice.

  Bobby turns away and grabs an orange box from under the workbench. It’s heavy plastic with metal latches, smudged with axel grease. His name is printed on top in black magic marker. He pops it open, grabs an adjustable wrench, stares at it. Thinking about what to say to me. What to do about me. I know for a fact that he wants to bury that wrench in my face.

  Bobby the Killer wants to do me harm.

  But that will land him in the doghouse so he retreats.

  That fucking lawn won’t mow itself, he spits on his way out.

  I try to picture the lawn mowing itself and I laugh out loud. Loud enough so he can hear me, that silly redneck fuck. Then I go inside to take a nap because it’s too goddamn hot for chores anyhow and plus my brain is beginning to shut down from the stuff I inhaled.

  When I wake up, it’s dark and quiet, which means Aunt Haylie is working another double shift and Bobby the Killer is losing at cards and getting shitfaced drunk at the Polish Club with all the other old guys in town. The air is a bit more bearable when the sun goes down. There’s a Mason jar in the refrigerator full of pickled eggs floating in a pissy brine. Bobby’s mom makes them for him and his sister, who lives in town, too. I take one, and then another, and don’t stop until the whole jar is gone.

  A few minutes later Brenda Pasnaki is knocking at my door. She’s wearing strawberry lip gloss and a wife beater and black short shorts. Pearls of sweat on her shoulders and chest like a necklace. I know her from school, which I don’t always go to for all the usual reasons.

  She bats her eyes at me—something she got from MTV.

  Hey, I say. You here for your lesson.

  Yeah, she says.

  I open the door wide so she can come in and then I tell her to follow me to my room.

  I’m teaching her how to suck a dick.

  She smiles and blushes, snaps her bubblegum with her tongue. We go into my closet and study up on some of Bobby the Killer’s porn. Afterward I tell her she’s getting much better.

  Loads of improvement, I say.

  She’s very pleased. Among other things, Brenda is also a perfectionist.

  I pull up my pants and we smoke a joint that tastes skunky and watch cartoons. Tom and Jerry crack me up, always into some shit. Brenda craves French fries and a chocolate frappe and so I take cash from the drawer in the kitchen where Aunt Haylie hides her tips. I get my BMX bike from the garage and she sits on the handlebars and we ride down the middle of Pleasant Street against a warm breeze that carries with it green-eyed horseflies and the chemical smell of the tannery. Last year after drinking two bottles of Boone’s Farm and a pint of Jack Daniel’s, I hotwired an El Camino with Jimmy Peters and drove it into the man-made pond. Jimmy can’t swim and so of course we got caught. Chief Waz made us pick up trash at the drive-in movie theater every Saturday for a month. Milk Duds, Junior Mints, Mike and Ike, popcorn containers.

  Chip Flanagan is half-sitting on the black handrail in front of the pharmacy. Puffing on a Kool. He graduated a few years ago. He works at the package store now and will sell me booze out the back door. He drives a sweet GTO and keeps a wooden baseball
bat in the trunk in case there’s any trouble, and there usually is. He’s parked the car under the dim light across the street and it looks like it’s just been washed. Blue and shiny and dripping water. Chrome bumpers like funhouse mirrors. Chip doesn’t notice us until my rear brakes squeak and he looks up, turning slightly so Brenda can see his new tattoo. He got it at Johnny Palomino’s Ink Shoppe off Route 2A in Bernardston. It’s a red rose wrapped around a knife blade on his right bicep.

  Oh, hell no. Look what the cat done drugged in, he says, flexing his pipes a bit.

  Brenda gets down off the bike and I lean it against the brick wall. She fixes her shorts from going up her ass and tries to ignore Chip, but I know he gives her the creeps.

  He offers me his cigarette and I pinch it between my fingers and take the last couple drags. We pose hard like that and look across the way at his GTO.

  She’s a real beauty, I say.

  Oh yah hey, she’s a fucking beaut, he says, looking at Brenda instead. Chip somehow thinks of himself as a ladies man.

  His left arm suddenly jerks skyward like he’s a puppet on strings. Eventually his hand flaps back down to his side like a scattershot bird. He has a mild form of Tourette syndrome that manifests itself in occasional and uncontrollable spasms.

  It’s one of my favorite things about him.

  Brenda rolls her eyes and goes inside the pharmacy and Chip whistles through gray, clenched teeth and adjusts his balls and calls me a lucky somebitch.

  I don’t see it that way.

  Then he wants to buy a dime bag of dope so we make a plan to hook up later. Brenda is already in the booth and by the time I join her she’s already ordered for both of us. Pat Roy with her blue beehive hairdo is running the counter and she shakes her head when she sees me—her daughter is my age and I popped her cherry last Fourth of July at the Dwire Lot barbecue. Pat drops potato wedges into boiling oil. The frappe machine motor whines. Then she puts the big bowl in front of us. Two metal containers overflowing chocolate and two glasses with straws.

  I squirt ketchup on my fries one by one.

  We feel better after we eat.

  Brenda looks at me and says she wants to go home and fuck.

  Much later I open my eyes and Bobby the Killer is naked. Brenda is crying, and Aunt Haylie has a bonehandle pistola. The living room is mostly dark but for the blue light of the television. I’m sitting on the couch in my tightie-whities and Aunt Haylie is looking at me but pointing the gun at Bobby, who in turn is trying to hide behind Brenda. Brenda’s shorts are around her ankles, but she is covering her bare tits. I smell gasoline and the pink goop that Bobby uses to clean his hands. And I smell just-got-after pussy, which is another clue as to what is going on here.

  It’s surprising to me, but not unbelievable.

  The only sound is Brenda sobbing and a high-pitched hum from the off-air station on the television. There’s an empty rubber hanging off the end of Bobby’s limp dick. He pisses himself in fear. The rubber fills up and falls off—splat—and I’m the only one who seems to notice.

  Well, Aunt Haylie says to me.

  It seems she has asked me a question and is waiting for an answer.

  What you got to say for yourself, she says.

  I don’t know what to say to her. I’m still trying to piece it together.

  Whoring your little slut out to Bobby, she says.

  I laugh out loud.

  Look at her, she says. How could he resist.

  I look at Brenda and Aunt Haylie is right. She’s a beautiful girl and maybe I have created some kind of monster. Brenda looks at me and tells me she’s sorry but I don’t really care about that. Not at all I don’t.

  Aunt Haylie’s gun hand is shaking. Bobby is shaking too and he puts his hands over his cock as though that will help.

  The front door flies open and Chip strolls in with his Louisville Slugger. Riding around like he will and I guess he witnessed my predicament through the window facing the street. He stands next to me, twitching like somebody is shocking him with electricity, and leans on his bat. He checks out Brenda, gives Bobby a look, nods at me and half smiles toward Aunt Haylie.

  He was a regular of hers at the Castaway Lounge back in her stripping days.

  Then at once his body settles back into itself, and sounding cool, unflappable, and maybe oblivious, he says to my aunt, What’s up. He angles himself so she can see his tattoo, but Aunt Haylie ignores him.

  A dog starts barking in some backyard and that gets a whole gang of them going like a strange and far-flung church choir.

  Well, I finally say. He ain’t so different, now is he. You always want different but nothing ever is.

  Aunt Haylie lowers the bonehandle pistola to her hip, which is Bobby the Killer’s cue to bolt for the door that Chip left ajar. She watches him disappear into the night, starts to cry and sits down on the floor. I take the gun from her gently and put it in my waistband. We hear the pickup engine start, tires squeal. I wonder where he’ll go now, driving off without any clothes.

  Brenda gets dressed. Her wife beater is all bunched up on the floor near the coffee table and Chip fetches it for her, holds it to his nose before he hands it over. She’s regaining her composure now, standing straight. She snaps her gum. Her running makeup is clown-like.

  You want a ride, Chip asks her as she tugs her shirt on.

  All right, she says, looking down at her feet instead of anywhere else.

  He winks at me.

  They leave together and close the door.

  His fat Eagles chirp too.

  Now it’s just me and Aunt Haylie, like it always has been since my moms split for Florida when I was a kid. We stay put for a good long while, her crying and me rolling a fatty. Then I put my arm around her and she rests her head on my shoulder. Then we smoke together. Her cheeks are red and puffy. Her T-shirt smells like fabric softener and peanut shells and the underarm roll-on that balls up where she hasn’t shaved. There are crickets in the bushes alongside the house and Aunt Haylie says we’ve got to pack up and get out before he comes back with the cops. I remove the bonehandle pistola from my shorts, tilt my head, and aim the gun at the television screen where from this angle ghostly figures are moving—old images that got stuck in there somehow, bad memories. I tell her about an apartment above the Bloody Brook Bar in the center of town. I saw a flyer on the wall in Rogers and Brooks. It has new carpet and curtains, and a Sears microwave.

  She nods her head up and down until her chin rests on the hard part of her chest.

  That wouldn’t be too bad, she says.

  Her voice sounds funny, muffled. She inhales and holds the stuff deep in her lungs as long as she can. Then she closes her eyes and exhales. I can smell her breath like stale milk.

  That might be just the thing, she says.

  Opens her eyes and blinks them to adjust. I can feel her looking at me.

  Then she sighs my name and smiles at the ceiling. And I squeeze the trigger and there’s a flash of white and the gun kicks, the meaty part of my arm jams back into my shoulder socket and all those bad memories trapped inside Bobby’s box explode into a million little pieces.

  SIX STONES DOWN

  THE MOUNTAIN

  The Malibu fishtails then stops and the man asks if you need a ride. His radio is playing music from Northampton and you get in. It’s a hot one, he says, and then he tells you his air conditioning is on the blink. It just needs a shot of Freon, but he hasn’t gotten around to it. His mouth is so thin and straight and looks like it was made with a knife. He keeps his left hand on the wheel, steering with his wrist, and he takes the back of your head with his right, holding your hair so tight your eyes water. Don’t move a muscle boy and won’t nobody get hurt, he says, putting your face in his lap. Then he turns onto Sawmill Plain Road just past the Sitterly lot.

  Mumbling the words to maybe a church song you don’t recognize:

  Six stones down the mountain

  Six stones down the mountain

>   Lonely as it is up there

  Looking for a god that cares

  You hear a flat-bed from Austin Brothers, but what you see are the mostly red wires spitting copper venom, all that remains of the Malibu’s dashboard. His long-sleeve shirt smells like motor oil and armpits. He waits until a couple cars pass and then he cranks the wheel and under the hood a loose belt giggles sinfully at the apparently familiar predicament. He sets you on your side, undoes your trousers, pushes them down below your hips. He tugs your underpants down too and stretches the waistband trying to get his greedy fingers exactly where he wants them. Oh Jesus. You close your eyes against the sunlight and sense the afternoon:

  Hobo zooms his crop duster over Tapscott’s fields. You hear the thresher out in Fat Johnny’s hay and that old FarmAll tractor is coughing up a lung. You hear the rolling words of some Puerto Ricans hired out of Holyoke as they gather around the water pump for their break. You smell the manure pile at the edge of Thurow’s property and hear Peter Junior shaping it with a backhoe. You smell the diesel fuel in Paul Soloski’s pond from when his nephew got drunk and tried to set it on fire. You smell the exhaust fumes of RVs with New York plates as they back into position at the White Birch Campground. Jimmy LaPinta’s Willys is skipping a cylinder in idle as he pitchforks heads of cabbage into the back. They thump and bump against the makeshift rails he’s constructed out of particleboard and plywood scraps. He’ll try to get a load to Oxford Pickle before supper. Then Mark Williams is having trouble with the Jamaicans he buses in from Hartford for the harvest so his corn is still high on Meadow Road and it swallows you.

  The long stalks rustle until you emerge spent from the guts of that seasonal green beast. You skirt the landfill, where Chet Pellovicz is known to nurse a nip of Jack Daniel’s in the woodshed, sucking on orange slices, waiting to collect the next random toll. Fat black horseflies and blood-drunk mosquitoes buzz like power lines and Big Billy Borden’s far-off’ hammer secures the frame of Doc Compton’s new house out past the drag strip. The red vinyl seats of the Malibu scorch the exposed skin from where the stranger has maneuvered your clothes, and they moan when he moves you against them. Your face chafes against the lap of his starched khaki pants.