by Chris Offutt
“Now, Ab, I ain’t saying I don’t, that I don’t want us to be, you know, together. I just want you to know that if something ever happens to me, you’ll go on. You know?”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No. I mean yes. What I said.”
“Who is she?”
“What?”
“Don’t get cute, Virgil Caudill. I don’t see you for weeks and your family don’t see you either. Then you come up here and tell me to go find a new man. I ain’t stupid. It’s that little bitch who works in the office at maintenance.”
“Who? No.”
“Don’t say it ain’t. I know where she lives, down on Lower Lick Fork, off the interstate. I heard you been driving out that way couple times a week.”
Virgil shook his head. He couldn’t believe how fast this had gone bad. Abigail’s face was red. Her voice had risen steadily, controlled and hard, fury at its edges.
“Don’t you sit and shake your head, Virgil Caudill. I won’t be treated this way. I ain’t your whore to let go of when you’re done.”
“I know you ain’t, Ab.”
“Listen at him. He knows I ain’t no whore. Thank you. You’re pretty nice for a son of a bitch.”
“Abigail, it ain’t any of this.”
“No? Then what? What is it?”
“It’s me. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” she yelled. “There ain’t no that’s all to it. I’m part of it, if you didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing. I mean, I can’t.”
“Which is it? Nothing or you can’t?”
“Both.”
“Bullshit! It can’t be both. Don’t lie, Virgil. You never lied to me, so don’t start now. Just tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You know how many people have asked me when the wedding date was? Do you know what it’s like to answer those questions when I haven’t seen you in a month?”
“I’m sorry, Ab. People do me the same way. They ain’t got no life of their own so they want to mess with yours.”
“I have a life, Virgil. It’s a pretty good one, and you’re in it, right? Tell me I’m in your life,”
“Ain’t me being part of yours enough?”
“Tell me I’m in yours.”
“Not just now.”
“Get out!”
“But there’s nobody else,”
“Go on and get!”
“Just remember that I came over here, Ab. You’re my best friend.
I wish. I . . . I.”
Virgil rose and walked awkwardly to the door and stopped. He loved her as much as ever, but he didn’t feel it now. He couldn’t.
“Get out!” she said.
She was beginning to sob and he knew that she wanted privacy, that for him to see her cry would be another wound. He went out.
“Who are you?” she screamed from the door. “I don’t know you anymore. Who are you!”
He descended the steps in a daze. The door muffled her voice, but he knew that she would run through the apartment, slam her bedroom door, and cry on the bed. He sat in the car, feeling terrible.
At his trailer he undressed and lay in bed, unable to sleep. All of his planning ended at Rodale. Afterwards he’d drive to Cincinnati, but he wasn’t sure whether to take the interstates or the old state roads. They all ran the same direction, roughly parallel to each other. He could make better time on the interstates, but he’d be more visible, easier to trap. The state roads were private, and offered many routes of escape if he was chased. He was reminded of a question he and Boyd had often asked as children—during a slight rain, did you run to get out of it sooner and risk hitting more raindrops?
He began to worry about the noise that his pistol would make. He wondered if Rodale had a dog. He wondered if he would be able to do it. Sleep was far away. Boyd had always told him that instead of counting sheep, he should talk to the shepherd. Virgil tried but the man transformed to his brother and then to his father. This was not the night for them. He was in it alone.
10
* * *
Virgil woke about light He glanced at the clock and remembered that he wasn’t going to work. His limbs tingled as if touched by electricity. He dressed and carried his coffee outside, aware of each movement. He savored the sunlight. The softwood leaves had begun to tighten, their edges shifting color. A cold snap would turn the leaves, and a hard rain would knock half down. Only the oaks were still green. They were the last to shed in fall and the last to flower in spring, as if holding back to make sure of each season’s arrival.
After cleaning the small trailer, Virgil shut off the water at the well, flushed the toilet, and ran all the faucets until the lines were empty. He crawled under the trailer with a hacksaw and sliced through the lowest point of the drainpipes. The remaining water spilled to the ground. He watched it soak into the earth, realizing that he would never get town water. He wished he could remain there forever, safe and hidden in the darkness.
He crawled out and poured antifreeze into the drains. The trailer was ready for winter. He unplugged the refrigerator and emptied the food into a sack for his mother. From the floor vent he removed the duffel bag that held his new identification, keys to the car at the Cincinnati airport, and the banded piles of money. He put it and a blanket in the trunk of his car.
As he walked through the tiny confines one last time, he was transfixed by the frozen snarl of the stuffed possum. He’d heard that they didn’t play dead, but actually fainted from fear. He placed it in the front seat.
His mother’s grass was high again and he decided to cut it. Sara had taken her to town. He was grateful for the time alone at home. The lawnmower engine had a new muffler, and he realized that Marlon had replaced the old one. As he mowed, Virgil wondered vaguely how a muffler could suck up sound. The red leaves of poplar had been the first to drop, and the blades shredded them like a spray of blood.
The work emptied his mind, and an idea leaped into the blank space. He shut off the mower, removed the muffler, carried it into the shed, and fastened it between the jaws of an ancient vise. He retrieved the pistol from the car and selected a drill bit that matched the caliber of the gun. Very carefully, he drilled a hole through the length of the muffler. He changed the drill bit to a sanding head and ran it through the hole until most of the burrs were gone.
After a search of the dim shed, he found a screwdriver with a tiny blade and removed the pistol’s front sight. He wrapped the barrel with electrician’s tape to act as a bushing. He slipped the muffler over the end of the barrel and used a metal hose clamp to hold it in place. He stared at the pistol, unable to figure out a way to ensure accuracy. A pile of wooden dowels lay in the shed. He wiped them clean and tried several until he found one that was identical to the caliber of the pistol He slipped it down the muffler and into the barrel to align the muffler’s hole with the bore of the pistol. He tightened the hose clamp and removed the dowel.
Outside he loaded the pistol. His mother was still gone and he fired into the freshly mown grass. The sound was more altered than silenced, having lost the sharpness of a pistol shot. He fired several more times. It was loud, but no one could identify the sound as gunfire.
His mother would return soon, and he wanted to avoid his sister. Dust rose from his boots as he left. Ten thousand times he’d walked this route. He knew every tree along the way, recognized the bend of bough, each new scale of bark. He entered the woods as if stepping into a house he was ready to abandon, seeing everything for the last time. Sunlight dappled the forest floor. He followed a game trail to Shawnee Rock. Gray moss furred the north face. He sat within its shadow, remembering that the area was haunted. He’d never seen a spirit and didn’t know anyone who had.
He hoped for guidance, but none came. He was just a man alone in the woods. When he spoke, the sound hung in the air.
“So lon
g, Boyd.”
He lay on his side with his back against the base of the rock. He closed his eyes. Sleep came on him like a layer of loam.
He woke to late afternoon’s red light cutting through the trees. He thought he should have dreamed something profound, but there was only the awareness of being cold and stiff. He walked to his mother’s house. She stood in the kitchen, puzzled by the groceries he’d brought from his trailer.
“Fridge broke,” he said.
She began putting items away with smooth, practiced motions. He’d always found it easy to lie to her because she preferred to embrace falsehoods rather than accept unpleasant facts. A path worn in the linoleum led from sink to refrigerator to stove. Her face had aged. Virgil was overwhelmed by sympathy and love. She was going to suffer more, and for the first time since he’d embarked on his plan, he felt regret. His departure would mean the loss of another man in her life. She’d be down to a son-in-law.
Virgil moved to her and hugged her tight. He felt her strength passing into him as it had during bad times as a child, and he was astounded once more that he had come from her body. He was leaving forever and he wondered if she would forgive him.
His mother returned his hug with great ferocity. As he relaxed, she did, too, following their familiar cues. They released each other. A pearl of water lay on her cheek. He wiped it with his thumb, a gesture he recognized as hers, one of many he carried.
“How’s Sara?” he said.
“Doing good. Said you stopped over for a visit. Said you’re full of plans.”
“Well.”
“Reckon we’ll all know soon enough.”
Her hair contained more gray than dark, a change he hadn’t noticed before.
“You got anything needs done?”
She thought for a moment, cocking her head. The familiarity of the trait startled him. It was as if he was seeing her again after twenty years away.
“No,” she said. “I’m pretty much caught up. Plenty of wood. Chimney flue’s open. Gutters are clean.”
“Marlon’s been helping. Sara’s lucky there.”
“We all are, Virge.”
“I just thought you might need something.”
“Having you here is enough.”
Virgil was trying to memorize her hands and the play of light on her face. She was wearing her Rocksalt clothes, which were slightly garish and tacky. She looked exactly like what she was—a country woman dressed for town. He supposed all people resembled what they were. He would have to change his style of clothing.
They prepared supper together, his mother tolerating his assistance though he knew she preferred to work alone, a family trait. The sunshine fell abruptly away and a chill slid through the room. He performed his tasks with care, hoarding each gesture for future memory.
They ate in the comfort of silence at the table he’d sat before all his life. They washed dishes together. Afterwards they sat in the living room before the blank television.
“What,” his mother said to him.
“Nothing.”
“You got something in your craw, Virge. I know the signs.”
“Just felt like seeing you.”
“What brought that on?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“You sure?”
“No reason.”
“You never done nothing without a reason your whole life.”
“Reckon I’m changing.”
“You’re an educated hillbilly,” his mother said. “The best of two worlds.”
“Or maybe the worst.”
“Now you’re talking out of your books.”
“Not with you, I ain’t.”
“I’m proud of you, son,”
Virgil turned on the television. His mother possessed a surprising amount of information on the private lives of the actors. She knew more about them than she did about Virgil. At nine o’clock she said good night. Virgil rose from the chair by the couch, his father’s chair, then Boyd’s, soon to be Marlon’s.
“Mom.”
“Yes,”
“I, uh.”
“I love you, Virge.”
“Me, too.”
She left the room and Virgil felt pummeled by loss. He left the TV on so she’d think he was still watching. In the bathroom he found an unopened bottle of Valium that the doctor had given her after Boyd’s death. He ground a few of the blue pills to dust and mixed it with raw hamburger.
The autumn, air carried a chill that focused his mind. Stars glinted in the black sky. His brain worked better in cold weather and he decided to go somewhere that offered a long winter.
He drove off the hill, and on impulse he stopped at the post office. The flag was gone, rolled up on its pole and lying in the building, but Zephaniah would still be there. He lived in the rear of the old company store. He’d long ago trained the community not to bother him over postal matters in his off hours. Virgil went to the back and knocked. Zephaniah was wearing slippers that made him walk differently. He looked older than at work. Virgil sat on the couch. The last time he’d been inside was as a child when he and Boyd had asked for water in summer.
A black-and-white photograph of a man and woman hung inside an embossed frame. The woman was pretty. The glass was rippled.
“That you?” Virgil said.
“And Pearl,” Zephaniah said, “She died,”
Virgil had assumed that Zeph had always been alone. The thought of him as a young man in love was disconcerting.
Zephaniah placed his feet on a stool made of six large juice cans covered with red cloth. He leaned back in his chair. His glasses were missing an arm and hung askew on his face. Light from the kitchen spread into the room. Virgil tried to think of something to say. He tipped his head against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. The corner was dark. A strip of wallpaper hung like a dog’s tongue. Virgil closed his eyes. The scent of kerosene lingered in the room from many winters’ worth of heat.
He opened his eyes and was briefly unsure of his surroundings. Dusk had turned to night. Zephaniah sat in his chair, his fingers folded toward themselves as if fused together. Virgil moved to the door. The outside air was black.
“Good-bye,” he said.
Zephaniah nodded once.
Virgil stepped into darkness. As he closed the door he watched the interior light condense to a strip that ran across the yard and vanished.
He sat in his car a long time, his mind moving in a dozen directions. He was dismayed that, having lived in one place all his life, he had so few people to tell good-bye.
He drove east and turned left at the fork instead of toward home. He followed an overgrown dirt road through the creek and up the hill. It was the remnant of an old logging trail that met a fire road at the top of the ridge. Virgil stopped and left the car. From the trunk he removed the paper bag that contained the hamburger and the pistol. White tree stumps rose like teeth on the trail. The moon lay on its back.
Virgil moved along the treeline that seamed the ridge. At its edge, he crouched in the brush and looked down at the small house where Billy Rodale lived. Starlight illuminated old tires lying on the low-pitched roof. They held the tar paper against the wind that gusted off the ridge. Rodale’s car sat close enough to the house that a driver could step onto the porch.
He watched for a long time as the woods settled into their overnight silence, broken by an owl’s cry or the movement of a forager in the brush. Virgil was hot and cold at once, as if suffering from, fever. He felt his heart working hard. He slipped his right hand inside the front of his pants to keep his trigger finger warm.
He could walk away.
He could return to his car, drive home, and go to work tomorrow.
He stood and stretched. The sky was black. He loaded the pistol and began descending a steep hill, holding the pistol awkwardly against his chest. When he heard the first rattle of the dog’s chain, he threw the paper bag toward the doghouse. The dog barked several times, a sound that hushed t
he woods and drew a sweat from Virgil’s forehead. He could hear the rustle of paper as the dog began eating the hamburger, and he hoped it wouldn’t die. The shiny muffler gleamed in the moonlight, a ridiculous-looking weapon.
He waited a long time before tossing a rock at the doghouse. It bounced twice. There was no response and Virgil threw another rock. The night stayed quiet. He eased from the woods to the open space of the yard. He ducked beneath the window of an add-on bathroom, remembering that he and Boyd had come here as kids to watch its construction.
At the corner of the house he stopped. The urge to flee nearly overwhelmed him. He endured a trembling spell. When it ended, he stepped onto the porch and a board creaked. He walked on the sides of his feet to the door. He drew back the hammer on the revolver, a click that roared in the quiet, and turned the doorknob as gently as possible. His knuckles brushed the faceplate as he pushed the door open. Dim light shot across the floor in front of him. He stepped in fast, facing the kitchen. The door to his left was the bathroom he’d passed outside, and he moved the opposite way to the front room. He froze at a low steady sound and the flicker of movement. A wave of sweat drenched him. He remembered to breathe. There was a dull gleam mixed with the sound and Virgil realized that a television set was turned on, and the station had gone off the air. Facing the screen was a couch on which Billy Rodale lay asleep. He was breathing from his open mouth, a sound that droned through the room.
Virgil felt his entire being turn inside out. The sodden smell of dirty dishes, stale beer, and unchanged clothes hung in the air. He felt each particle of air that touched his body. He could hear the man’s breath twined with the hum of the TV and the sound of his own rushing blood. Virgil was aware of tremendous power. Rodale was small and pathetic. He was beneath pity. He was an animal in a dank lair, the runt of an abandoned litter. He should have been drowned at birth.
Virgil stood still until he felt in full command of his faculties. He had a sense of being part of all life. He moved a small step forward, his vision held to Rodale’s face, the pistol before him. It weighed nothing, like holding a twig. Rodale’s face was pulling the gun barrel across the room, which in turn pulled Virgil’s hand, his arm, and his body. He stepped into the TVs glow, blocking its eerie light.