The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey)

by Jason Jack Miller

  White, knee-high tombstones stretched along the hill like spokes from a big wheel. I felt lost and small and selfish for not committing myself to something greater. Like I had less to die for than the guys lying in the ground here. My life was exactly the kind of life that should've been given up for the greater good. I could pass through like ripples on a pond. Nothing, not even a memory, to note I'd been on earth.

  I told Katy this, and how I felt like a coward for not following a higher path. She just held my hand and let me talk.

  When it started to rain I gave her my scarf. Just after that we found Stu's grave. I touched the stone. Fresh flowers wilted against the weather. Reds and whites faded to black and gray. A soggy flag hung its head. I took Stu's drumsticks out of my jacket and laid them in the newly-placed sod. The soft earth gave beneath my knees. I sank a few inches into the wet soil. I couldn't believe he was down there in a casket. The letters carved into the headstone didn't tell his story. A person walking by wouldn't know anything about Stu by reading the tombstone except that he'd been born and had died. I touched the date of his birth. In a month he would've been twenty-six.

  I looked at Katy and said, "Look at you, getting all wet. We can go."

  "I'm fine, Preston. Take your time."

  I stood. "I'd feel really bad if you got sick."

  She took my hand and led me back to the car. Once we got in I cried. For a long time. It seemed like a long time anyway. Maybe a half hour. It seemed like a long time, though. Katy's phone rang. She apologized and ignored the call, but the mood had already ended.

  Just outside of Clarksburg we stopped at a little diner. It had a jukebox and Formica counters. The booth cushions were red vinyl, and on the menus were a bunch of ads for local businesses. My favorite read Frida's Curl Up and Dye Hair Salon.

  Katy got a cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake. I got a double with extra pickles and a Coke. We split an order of fries. They were cut real big and came in a red plastic basket lined with paper, like French fries used to be when you were little. Drenched in Heinz, the taste reminded me of when there used to be lunch counters at the drug stores on High. I ate like I'd never eaten before.

  A couple of old guys kept playing Willie Nelson and Patsy Cline songs. Katy sang in a really deep voice, "Crazy..." I laughed. The lights came on in the parking lot, and Katy asked if I was ready to head back. I wasn't, but I knew she had things to do and felt guilty for keeping her all day.

  When she went to the bathroom to freshen up my phone buzzed. I read Lennon's text and smiled.

  The ride back didn't take as long as the ride down. It never did. Katy drove a little faster than I would've. When we got off of 79 by the Sheetz she said, "We aren't going to be able to practice tonight."

  I looked out the window. I didn't really want to go to the meeting. "Don't you live around here?"

  "You have to work for that. You may have fooled Jamie, but I'm a firm believer in a two week waiting period."

  "Isn't that just for handguns, or something?"

  "You are not a handgun. More like a pellet gun. Maybe even a slingshot." She slowed down at a crosswalk near Ruby's main entrance. "I have a big day tomorrow. Valentine's party at the daycare. Have to bake three dozen cookies."

  I hung onto the door handle like I could drag this moment to a complete stop. "See you tomorrow, then?"

  She said, "Sure. I can't have you screwing up my big Touchdown City debut. I have my peeps to think about." She put her hand on my knee and leaned over. "Tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow," I said.

  She closed her eyes and kissed me. I kissed her back. I said, "I don't want to say goodnight."

  She said, "Say goodnight, Katy Stefanic."

  "Goodnight, Katy." I grabbed my guitar out of the back. She gave a tiny little wave. I watched her go up Stadium Drive and disappear around a slight bend.

  I stood in the cavernous entryway and faced the hospital's bright lobby. Addiction Services sat right where I'd left it. I took a quick peek inside, but Pauly wasn't in the room yet. I went to the gift shop and got an iced tea and a Snickers bar for him. Then I went into the bathroom and washed my hands and face. My phone buzzed. Dani. I hit ignore and went back into the hall. A nurse walked past. I thought it was the same guy from last night. I mumbled something about the patients from the inpatient treatment unit. With a total lack of joy, he said, "They come down at eight."

  And when he saw that I was about to ask a follow-up, said, "And we take them up right at nine."

  "Thanks," I said, shuffling away because I didn't know what to do next. I got here way early. Shit. At the end of the hallway I turned around and shuffled back.

  A group of guys walked toward the door. They nodded at me. The secretary from last night, George, asked if I was going in. He held the door open for the two guys who came in with him. He had a Pittsburgh accent, saying 'down' like it rhymed with 'pawn'. "Sit down, get a coffee, friend. Maybe listen for a bit."

  If I learned one thing it was to never trust anybody who called you 'friend.' I said, "Oh. No, no. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm just waiting for my brother. He's the alcoholic."

  The old man laughed. "Son, I'm not saying you are or you aren't. I'm just extending an invitation. Saying that it's okay to grab a coffee and wait for a spell. Maybe let me take a looky at what you got in the case there."

  "I didn't mean to get defensive. Maybe I will then, if it's okay?"

  "Our primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics achieve sobriety. If that means helping your brother out, so be it." He held the door for me.

  I took a seat right by the door like last time. He asked if I wanted coffee. I shook my head. I planned to stay only long enough to talk to Pauly. And I sure as hell didn't want to see that fucking tweeker again.

  "What you got in there?" George blew into his coffee cup and shoved his other hand into his front pocket.

  "Martin. D-28." I flipped the latches.

  George whistled. "Got a few miles on her." He nodded at a guy pouring sugar into a Styrofoam cup. A few more people came in. The coffee table was getting crowded. I was too close. Still no Pauly.

  "Yeah, but I've only had it for a week. Sold everything I owned to get it." My voice sounded really loud. I didn't want him thinking I was shouting.

  "Sold your soul?" George said it kind of fast, and I didn't quite catch it.

  "Huh?"

  "Nada. My brother had an old D35. Used to play a lot down by Fairmont, Weston, Sutton. All over. When I railroaded we'd play four nights a week."

  "You play?"

  "The devil's instrument." George nodded at somebody else, then turned around and shook hands with a skinny black guy wearing Moon Boots and a raincoat.

  "Oh yeah?" I almost told him about Katy and Jamie and all that, when George said he was going up front to get settled. He said, "Stay as long as you'd like."

  Figuring I'd just catch Pauly in the hall, I flipped my case closed and stood up real fast.

  A man blocked my path to the door. The PO from last night. I stepped to the side to get around him as another man came in. When I saw the sleeves of tattoos on his arms, blues and reds running together into a mass of blotches I knew it was the guy from last night. Up close I could see dried blood bumps and scabs superimposed over his ink. The only teeth he had left looked like the black licorice nubs from Good & Plentys. It was the guy Pauly said was my dad.

  "That your guitar in there?" he said. He got real close, and I took a step back, but he kept moving toward me. Close enough to see all his shitty tattoos.

  He said, "I knew who you was the second I saw you. That Dago bitch told me you died same day your mother did. But I know flesh and blood. I know it." His breath smelled foul. Sulfurous and acidic. Matches and acetone.

  On his forearm I saw a heart with an arrow through it. My mom's name was in the heart. Carlene July 16, 1966-September 1, 1983. The lettering looked like it'd been written i
n black Sharpie.

  And right below it I saw an angel, and in the angel, the words Preston February 13, 1983-September 1, 1983.

  I shoulder checked him and threw the door open. It slammed the wall with a bang. At the end of the hall the elevator doors were sliding shut. Pauly sat in his wheelchair, waiting for a staff member to push him down the hall. He held his hand up, a defeated wave.

  I shook my head and turned to the lobby, past the gift shop and lists of donors and directory maps, under the quilts that hung from the ceiling like giant leaves falling from hidden trees. I didn't stop until I felt that cold February air on my cheeks. The stadium sat on the hill ahead, a chorus of birds cried out from beneath the stands. The concrete sloped in such a way that it projected their noise into the night like an amplifier. I looked for the Towers. All I knew was Katy lived by the Towers. I'd call her when I got there.

  Now old Preston Black went to the crossroads, he did.

  I walked faster, trying to stay out of the mud along the berm. Past old frats and a run-down hotel, down to University where I crossed by the McDonald's. But the more I walked the more the song dug into my brain. Like a tick on a dog. "Now old Preston Black went to the crossroads, he did, Preston Black went down to them crossroads, tried to make the devil a deal but the devil said he ain't got a soul to steal, Preston Black went down to the crossroads, so he did."

  When I saw Seneca Center and the river below I knew I screwed up. The road got steeper. The Towers were back over the hill and I hadn't seen Katy's car. Somehow I'd ended up on Eighth instead of Riverview. My head spun. "Preston Black went to the crossroads..."

  Yeah, I met the fucking devil. If I'd have known I was looking for the devil all along instead of my dad I would've put that record back in the bin and walked away. I wanted to walk into traffic. I wanted to rest on the bottom of the cold Mon. Sink in the mud, let a cold lullaby end it all like the song said. I turned around and went back up the hill. I stopped on University and realized how stupid this was.

  "... tried to make the devil a deal but the devil said he ain't got a soul to steal..."

  I took my phone out. Twenty-five after. I'd been walking for a half hour. Three missed calls. I checked my call log.

  Dani.

  Dani.

  Dani.

  I needed to hear Katy's voice. I needed to hear Pauly's voice. I needed Mick or Jamie. I needed my mom. I needed Stu. The phone buzzed in my hand.

  Dani.

  After all the rehearsing I did this morning and after the quality time I'd spent with Katy I figured I'd get this over with. Use the anger I had building up in me for something positive. As soon as I took the call I knew I should've taken time to prepare my speech, but being mad and lost made it hard to follow my own thoughts. "Hello?"

  "Preston, all night I tried to call you—"

  "I know. I said I'd call. Look, I'm on the other side of town, so I don't think I'll be able to make it over. I wanted to talk to you about some important things tonight anyway."

  "I made dinner for you. It's cold now, but I can put it in the oven, or we can get something else. Where are you? Are you walking?" She sounded like she'd been crying.

  It took me a while to spit it out. "Yeah. I am." Like walking wasn't humiliating enough.

  "Let me come and get you. You will get sick."

  "No. Definitely not."

  "It's silly to walk. Tell me where to pick you up. You said you wanted to talk to me, right?"

  The universe had begun systematically taking things from me. Maybe this was what Mick meant when he said I was skidding down a long hill. Maybe he meant I had to take control. Besides, I tired of living with all this hanging over my head. "I'll be waiting in the Seneca Center Parking lot. Down at the intersection."

  Down at the crossroads.

  Light danced at the end of the match. I held it up to my face, eyes squinting at the brightness. All I had to do was breathe.

  The inward puff drew the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Tiny curls of white paper caught fire, turned to ash, then disappeared. Smoke coated my tongue, my throat. It crept through my bronchial tubes, forcing a cough. It settled in my lungs, a golden nicotine tingle that dripped into my heart before spreading into my torso. I felt it in my fingers, then my legs.

  I'd fucked her. As soon as we got to the apartment almost. On the steps, just inside the big outside door she kissed me. For a second I fought it. But I knew when I answered her call it'd go just like this. By the time we got up the steps to her door I'd surrendered completely. She fumbled with the lock. I would've kicked the door down. We fell onto her couch. Cold leather against my back. Her hot skin against my front. I told her to slow down, I didn't want go too early and she rode me harder. Her tiny knees pushing into my ribs. She bared her teeth. She bit my neck, my ear, my shoulder.

  After, we drank. I went into the bathroom to pee and clean up, but she wouldn't let me put even my boxers back on. She turned the thermostat way up. She put a heavy comforter onto the couch and kept pouring drinks. She tapped a cigarette out of a new pack, and I asked for one. She said she thought I couldn't smoke, because of my voice. I told her it didn't matter. I really wasn't all that great a singer to begin with.

  When the alcohol made me sleepy she took my glass and set it on the floor. She said it was too early, and pulled the blanket off of me. I told her I was done. Her moist lips changed my mind. Needles of pleasure rippled through my skin, like I could pinpoint the location of every single nerve ending in my body. I arched my back, but her teeth wouldn't let go of me. Her amber eyes looked up at mine. She grinned.

  She pushed me back against the couch and sat on me again. To be inside her, almost able to feel the bum-bum of her pulse, put me into a trance. I laid back. Maybe because I realized, at that moment, she could give a shit about me, or what I thought and believed, or what made me get out of bed in the morning. Just like I told Pauly, I was her white trash slum fuck. I didn't deserve anything good in my life.

  We shared a cigarette and showered. She left all the lights off in the bathroom. Steam clung to the large half-circle window that looked out over the good part of town and the river. Steam entered my lungs, for a second I thought it could clean out my insides too. Maybe wash away the shitty things I'd done.

  Am doing.

  But her wet skin, so hot and smooth, replenished my store of indecent values from the inside. She pulled my hand toward the tiny, wet curls below her waist and fell into me, leaning against me, hot water between her skin and mine made it feel like I was wearing her. She guided my hand with her hand. Her long wet hair clung to my neck and chest. She breathed steam into my face. I began to sweat.

  When she finished she shut the water off, and pulled a heavy towel from the shower curtain rod. After a minute or two she went back into her bedroom. I stepped out of the big tub and fumbled along the tile on the wall for a light switch. I found myself a small towel in the linen closet. I shut the light off and dried myself while looking out the window. I wiped the steam away with my elbow, smearing all of the lights on Beechurst below.

  When she finished drying her hair she said, "You can sleep on the couch again, or join me in bed. Whichever you prefer."

  I crept into the bedroom, if only to keep from feeling like a whore. The dry pillowcase and sheet felt lovely against my clean skin. She put her arm around me and fell asleep without any chitchat. She didn't even say goodnight.

  For an hour at least, I just laid there. The heat made it hard to breathe. I sweated into the sheets then threw them off. Any time I got close to sleep I dreamt vivid dreams about Pauly's hospital room. A heart monitor bleated out a steady stream of whiny beeps. It took me a while to realize it wasn't Pauly's room. The heart monitor didn't belong to him.

  I sat in a chair, in the dark. Heavy shades were pulled across the window. Bright sunlight dampened by a few layers of material. It was hot outside. I had on jeans and a t-shirt.

  I didn't recognize him without his glasses. He looked really b
ig in his hospital gown. He snored really loudly. They had the covers pulled up over his belly.

  I knew it was a dream, like all those others. And I waited instead of reacting. After a long time, Jerry finally said, "You can steal from the devil, you can steal from your friend, but the devil's always going to get his in the end."

  When I figured out where I was and what was going to happen I tried yelling for a nurse, I tried getting up and throwing open the window. A weight pushed me down into the chair. Like somebody poured concrete over me while I slept. John Lennon told me to intervene, and I knew I couldn't let Jerry die.

  Jerry was the most fatherly of all my fathers. Like, I could see him coming to pick me up from school in that old black t-shirt, maybe even driving a shitty old Jeep like the one me and Pauly drove. Jerry as my father never said anything harsh, and when I fucked up he disciplined me firmly, but never harshly.

  In my wishes he taught me to play the guitar. He'd watch patiently as I fumbled through scales, my mind fighting for control over my fingers.

  Jerry sang a few lines over and over, looping like a digital delay. He sang, "I went to the levee but the devil got there first, said you can run all night but you can't outrun a curse."

  I thought he was talking about my dad. I asked him what I should do.

  "The accuser of brethren doesn't want us livin' Godly lives," he said, wiping his hands on his black t-shirt. For a second it felt sunny and cool. I assumed it was Marin County because the light looked like the light in all those old Grateful Dead family pictures. May as well have been heaven. He pulled his beard and said, "He don't want us living patient and lovely lives."