High Cotton: Selected Stories of Joe R. Lansdale

by Joe R. Lansdale

  Preacher Judd got up and ran at Widow Case, hitting her just above the knees and knocking her down, cracking her head a loud one on the Sylvania, but it still didn’t send her out. She was strong enough to grab him by the throat with both hands and throttle him.

  As she did, he turned his head slightly away from her digging fingers, and through the broken window he could see his retarded ghost. She was doing a kind of two step, first to the left, then to the right, going, “Unhhh, unhhhh,” and it reminded Preacher Judd of one of them dances sinners do in them places with lots of blinking lights and girls up on pedestals doing lashes with their hips.

  He made a fist and hit the widow a couple of times, and she let go of him and rolled away. She got up, staggered a second, then started running toward the kitchen, the knife still in her back, only deeper from having fallen on it.

  He ran after her and she staggered into the wall, her hands hitting out and knocking one of the big iron frying pans off its peg and down on her head. It made a loud BONG, and Widow Case went down.

  Preacher Judd let out a sigh. He was glad for that. He was tired. He grabbed up the pan and whammed her a few times, then, still carrying the pan, he found his hat in the living room and went out on the porch to look for Cinderella.

  She wasn’t in sight.

  He ran out in the front yard calling her, and saw her making the rear corner of the house, running wildly, hands close to the ground, her butt flashing in the moonlight every time the sheet popped up. She was heading for the woods out back.

  He ran after her, but she made the woods well ahead of him.

  He followed in, but didn’t see her. “Cindy,” he called. “It’s me. Ole Preacher Judd. I come to read you some Bible verses. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Then he commenced to coo like he was talking to a baby, but still Cinderella did not appear.

  He trucked around through the woods with his frying pan for half an hour, but didn’t see a sign of her. For a half-wit, she was a good hider.

  Preacher Judd was covered in sweat and the night was growing slightly cool and the old Halloween moon was climbing to the stars. He felt like just giving up. He sat down on the ground and started to cry.

  Nothing ever seemed to work out right. That night he’d taken his sister out hadn’t gone fully right. They’d gotten the candy and he’d brought her home, but later, when he tried to get her in bed with him for a little bit of the thing animals do without sin, she wouldn’t go for it, and she always had before. Now she was uppity over having a ghost-suit and going trick-or-treating. Worse yet, her wearing that sheet with nothing under it did something for him. He didn’t know what it was, but the idea of it made him kind of crazy.

  But he couldn’t talk or bribe her into a thing. She ran out back and he ran after her and tackled her, and when he started doing to her what he wanted to do, out beneath the Halloween moon, underneath the apple tree, she started screaming. She could scream real loud, and he’d had to choke her some and beat her in the head with a rock. After that, he felt he should make like some kind of theft was at the bottom of it all, so he took all her Halloween candy.

  He was sick thinking back on that night. Her dying without no God-training made him feel lousy. And he couldn’t get those Tootsie Rolls out of his mind.There must have been three dozen of them. Later he got so sick from eating them all in one sitting that to this day he couldn’t stand the smell of chocolate.

  He was thinking on these misfortunes, when he saw through the limbs and brush a white sheet go by.

  Preacher Judd poked his head up and saw Cinderella running down a little path going, “Wooooo, wooooo, goats.”

  She had already forgotten about him and had the ghost thing on her mind.

  He got up and crept after her with his frying pan. Pretty soon she disappeared over a dip in the trail and he followed her down.

  She was sitting at the bottom of the trail between two pines, and ahead of her was a clear lake with the moon shining its face in the water. Across the water the trees thinned, and he could see the glow of lights from a house. She was looking at those lights and the big moon in the water and was saying over and over, “Oh, priddy, priddy.”

  He walked up behind her and said, “It sure is, sugar,” and he hit her in the head with the pan. It gave a real solid ring, kind of like the clap of a sweet church bell. He figured that one shot to the bean was sufficient, since it was a good overhand lick, but she was still sitting up and he didn’t want to be no slacker about things, so he hit her a couple more times, and by the second time, her head didn’t give a ring, just sort of a dull thump, like he was hitting a thick, rubber bag full of mud.

  She fell over on what was left of her head and her butt cocked up in the air, exposed as the sheet fell down her back. He took a long look at it, but found he wasn’t interested in doing what animals do without sin anymore. All that hitting on the Widow Case and Cinderella had tuckered him out.

  He pulled his arm way back, tossed the frying pan with all his might toward the lake. It went in with a soft splash. He turned back toward the house and his car, and when he got out to the road, he cranked up the Dodge and drove away noticing that the Halloween sky was looking blacker. It was because the moon had slipped behind some dark clouds. He thought it looked like a suffering face behind a veil, and as he drove away from the Case’s, he stuck his head out the window for a better look. By the time he made the hill that dipped down toward Highway 80, the clouds had passed along, and he’d come to see it more as a happy jack-o’-lantern than a sad face, and he took that as a sign that he had done well.

  The Fat Man and the Elephant

  I don’t really know where this came from. It just sort of jumped out of the blue. Or seemed to. I suppose nothing really comes out of thin air, but for the life of me I can’t remember the roots of it. It’s one of my absolute favorites, and to the best of my memory it has never been reprinted outside of the collection it first appeared in, and that collection—By Bizarre Hands—is long out of print.

  Well, as I write this it occurred to me that there were a couple sources for this. Ideas that must have spurred it, but the content of it…well, I can’t begin to guess. The first source is the fact that I used to see, and still occasionally see, roadside attractions. You know, stop and see the three-legged calf, the giant rats of Sumatra. Snake farm. That kind of thing. Usually, it’s a pretty pathetic sight. There was even one that I heard about that had the world’s largest gopher. Which was true. Only the gopher was a statue. It was the world’s largest all right, but it wasn’t alive. It was just a come-on to get your money, and I suppose it worked. I once stopped to see the giant rats of Sumatra to be greeted by the sight of shaved possums. Sheessshhhh.

  THE SIGNS WERE SET in relay and went on for miles. The closer you got to the place the bigger they became. They were so enthusiastic in size and brightness of paint it might be thought you were driving to heaven and God had posted a sure route so you wouldn’t miss it.

  They read:

  WORLD’S LARGEST GOPHER!

  ODDITIES!

  SEE THE SNAKES! SEE THE ELEPHANT!

  SOUVENIRS!

  BUTCH’S HIGHWAY MUSEUM AND EMPORIUM!

  But Sonny knew he wasn’t driving to heaven. Butch’s was far from heaven and he didn’t want to see anything but the elephant. He had been to the Museum and Emporium many times, and the first time was enough for the sights—because there weren’t any.

  The World’s Largest Gopher was six feet tall and inside a fenced-in enclosure. It cost you two dollars on top of the dollar admission fee to get in there and have a peek at it and feel like a jackass. The gopher was a statue, and it wasn’t even a good statue. It looked more like a dog standing on its haunches than a gopher. It had a strained, constipated look on its homely face, and one of its two front teeth had been chipped off by a disappointed visitor with a rock.

  The snake show wasn’t any better. Couple of dead, stuffed rattlers with the rib bones sticking through their ta
xidermied hides, and one live, but about to go, cottonmouth who didn’t have any fangs and looked a lot like a deflated bicycle tire when it was coiled and asleep. Which was most of the time. You couldn’t wake the sonofabitch if you beat on the glass with a rubber hose and yelled FIRE!

  There were two main souvenirs. One was the armadillo purses, and the other was a miniature statue of the gopher with a little plaque on it that read: I SAW THE WORLD’S LARGEST GOPHER AT BUTCH’S HIGHWAY MUSEUM AND EMPORIUM OFF HIGHWAY 59. And the letters were so crowded on there you had to draw mental slashes between the words. They sold for a dollar fifty apiece and they moved right smart. In fact, Butch made more money on those (75¢ profit per statue) than he did on anything else, except the cold drinks which he marked up a quarter. When you were hot from a long drive and irritated about actually seeing the World’s Largest Gopher, you tended to spend money foolishly on soda waters and gopher statues.

  Or armadillo purses. The armadillos came from Hank’s Armadillo Farm and Hank was the one that killed them and scooped their guts out and made purses from them. He lacquered the bodies and painted them gold and tossed glitter in the paint before it dried. The ’dillos were quite bright and had little zippers fixed into their bellies and a rope handle attached to their necks and tails so you could carry them upside down with their sad, little feet pointing skyward.

  Butch’s wife had owned several of the purses. One Fourth of July she and the week’s receipts had turned up missing along with one of her ’dillo bags. She and the purse and the receipts were never seen again. Elrod down at the Gull station disappeared too. Astute observers said there was a connection.

  But Sonny came to see the elephant, not buy souvenirs or look at dead snakes and statues. The elephant was different from the rest of Butch’s stuff. It was special.

  It wasn’t that it was beautiful, because it wasn’t. It was in bad shape. It could hardly even stand up. But the first time Sonny had seen it, he had fallen in love with it. Not in the romantic sense, but in the sense of two great souls encountering one another. Sonny came back time after time to see it when he needed inspiration, which of late, with the money dwindling and his preaching services not bringing in the kind of offerings he thought they should, was quite often.

  Sonny wheeled his red Chevy pickup with the GOD LOVES EVEN FOOLS LIKE ME sticker on the back windshield through the gate of Butch’s and paid his dollar for admission, plus two dollars to see the elephant.

  Butch was sitting at the window of the little ticket house as usual. He was toothless and also wore a greasy, black work cap, though Sonny couldn’t figure where the grease came from. He had never known Butch to do any kind of work, let alone something greasy—unless you counted the serious eating of fried chicken. Butch just sat there in the window of the little house in his zip-up coveralls (summer or winter) and let Levi Garrett snuff drip down his chin while he played with a pencil or watched a fly dive bomb a jelly doughnut. He seldom talked, unless it was to argue about money. He didn’t even like to tell you how much admission was. It was like it was some secret you were supposed to know, and when he did finally reveal it, was as if he had given up part of his heart.

  Sonny drove his pickup over to the big barn where the elephant stayed, got out and went inside.

  Candy, the ancient clean-up nigger, was shoving some dirt around with a push broom, stirring up dust mostly. When Candy saw Sonny wobble in, his eyes lit up.

  “Hello there, Mr. Sonny. You done come to see your elephant, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah, I have,” Sonny said.

  “That’s good, that’s good.” Candy looked over Sonny’s shoulder at the entrance, then glanced at the back of the barn. “That’s good, and you right on time too, like you always is.”

  Candy held out his hand.

  Sonny slipped a five into it and Candy folded it carefully and put it in the front pocket of his faded khakis, gave it a pat like a good dog, then swept up the length of the barn. When he got to the open door, he stood there watching, waiting for Mr. Butch to go to lunch, like he did every day at eleven-thirty sharp.

  And sure enough, there he went in his black Ford pickup out the gate of Butch’s Museum and Emporium. Then came the sound of the truck stopping and the gate being locked. Butch closed the whole thing down every day for lunch rather than leave it open for the nigger to tend. Anyone inside the Emporium at that time was just shit out of luck. They were trapped there until Butch came back from lunch thirty minutes later, unless they wanted to go over the top or ram the gate with their vehicle.

  It wasn’t a real problem however. Customers seldom showed up mid-day, dead of summer. They didn’t seem to want to see the World’s Largest Gopher at lunch time.

  Which was why Sonny liked to come when he did. He and Candy had an arrangement.

  When Candy heard Butch’s truck clattering up the highway, he dropped the broom, came back and led Sonny over to the elephant stall.

  “He in this one today, Mr. Sonny.”

  Candy took out a key and unlocked the chainlink gate that led inside the stall and Sonny stepped inside and Candy said what he always said. “I ain’t supposed to do this now. You supposed to do all your looking through this gate.” Then, without waiting for a reply he closed the gate behind Sonny and leaned on it.

  The elephant was lying on its knees and it stirred slightly. Its skin creaked like tight shoes and its breathing was heavy.

  “You wants the usual, Mr. Sonny?”

  “Does it have to be so hot this time? Ain’t it hot enough in here already?”

  “It can be anyway you wants it, Mr. Sonny, but if you wants to do it right, it’s got to be hot. You know I’m telling the truth now, don’t you?”

  “Yeah…but it’s so hot.”

  “Don’t do no good if it ain’t, Mr. Sonny. Now we got to get these things done before Mr. Butch comes back. He ain’t one for spir’tual things. That Mr. Butch ain’t like you and me. He just wants that dollar. You get that stool and sit yourself down, and I’ll be back dreckly, Mr. Sonny.”

  Sonny sat the stool upright and perched his ample butt on it, smelled the elephant shit and studied the old pachyderm. The critter didn’t look as if it had a lot of time left, and Sonny wanted to get all the wisdom from it he could.

  The elephant’s skin was mottled grey and more wrinkled than a bloodhound’s. Its tusks had been cut off short years before and they had turned a ripe lemon yellow, except for the jagged tips, and they were the color of dung. Its eyes were skummy and it seldom stood anymore, not even to shit. Therefore, its flanks were caked with it. Flies had collected in the mess like raisins spread thickly on rank chocolate icing. When the old boy made a feeble attempt to slap at them with his tail, they rose up en masse like bad omens.

  Candy changed the hay the elephant lay on now and then, but not often enough to rid the stall of the stink. With the heat like it was, and the barn being made of tin and old oak, it clung to the structure and the elephant even when the bedding was fresh and the beast had been hosed down. But that was all right with Sonny. He had come to associate the stench with God.

  The elephant was God’s special animal-shit smell and all. God had created the creature in the same way he had created everything else—with a wave of his majestic hand (Sonny always imagined the hand bejeweled with rings). But God had given the elephant something special—which seemed fair to Sonny, since he had put the poor creature in the land of crocodiles and niggers—and that special something was wisdom.

  Sonny had learned of this from Candy. He figured since Candy was born of niggers who came from Africa, he knew about elephants. Sonny reasoned that elephant love was just the sort of information niggers would pass down to one another over the years. They probably passed along other stuff that wasn’t of importance too, like the best bones for your nose and how to make wooden dishes you could put inside your lips so you could flap them like Donald Duck. But the stuff on the elephants would be the good stuff.

  He was even more ce
rtain of this when Candy told him on his first visit to see the elephant that the critter was most likely his totem. Candy had taken one look at him and said that. It surprised Sonny a bit that Candy would even consider such things. He seemed like a plain old clean-up nigger to him. In fact, he had hired Candy to work for him before. The sort of work you wanted a nigger to do, hot and dirty. He’d found Candy to be slow and lazy and at the end of the day he had almost denied him the two dollars he’d promised. He could hardly see that he’d earned it. In fact, he’d gotten the distinct impression that Candy was getting uppity in his old age and thought he deserved a white man’s wages.

  But, lazy or not, Candy did have wisdom—least when it came to elephants. When Candy told him he thought the elephant was his totem, Sonny asked how he had come by that, and Candy said, “You big and the elephant is big, and you both tough-hided and just wise as Old Methus’la. And you can attract them gals just like an ole bull elephant can attract them elephant females, now can’t you? Don’t lie to Candy now, you know you can.”

  This was true. All of it. And the only way Candy could have known about it was to know he was like the elephant and the elephant was his totem. And the last thing about attracting the women, well, that was the thing above all that convinced him that the nigger knew his business.

  Course, even though he had this ability to attract the women, he had never put it to bad use. That wouldn’t be God’s way. Some preachers, men of God or not, would have taken advantage of such a gift, but not him. That wouldn’t be right.

  It did make him wonder about Louise though. Since the Lord had seen fit to give him this gift, why in the world had he ended up with her? What was God’s master plan there? She was a right nice Christian woman on the inside, but the outside looked like a four car pileup. She could use some work.

  He couldn’t remember what it was that had attracted him to her in the first place. He had even gone so far as to look at old pictures of them together to see if she had gotten ugly slowly. But no, she’d always been that way. He finally had to blame his choice on being a drinking man in them days and a sinner. But now, having lost his liquor store business, and having sobered to God’s will and gotten a little money (though that was dwindling), he could see her for what she was.