by Art Bourgeau
"Tell me, F.T., how did you and Snake meet?" she asked.
"It's a long story," he said. I sat back waiting, wondering which long story he was going to tell this time. He never tells the same story twice, and he's never told the truth.
"Go ahead, we've got time," she said.
"Well, it was like this," he began. "We met in the marines. We were both stationed at Camp Pendleton, California."
"Is that where they make Pendleton shirts?" interrupted Dawn. I shuddered and took a strong grip on my glass. It didn't faze F.T. at all.
"Nope. Camp Pendleton is the world's largest military base. It's so large the distance from the main gate to the base itself is thirty-six miles. It's an incredible place with its own desert and its own mountain. The marines have their desert warfare school there. I was a Recon marine in the desert warfare school when Snake got assigned there as a clerk typist. Snake wasn't very happy and I don't blame him. It was way the hell out in the middle of nowhere, and the company gunny sergeant was a real hardcase. I think we got him from the French Foreign Legion. He was so tough that he would cut off your eyelids to keep you awake, but he had a sense of humor. While he was showing Snake around, Snake asked him where the women were.
Like I said, this sergeant was mean, but he had a sense of humor, so he took Snake over and showed him the company mascot. Normally, the company mascot was a bulldog, but since this was the desert warfare school, the company mascot was a motheaten old camel who was every bit as mean as the sergeant. Snake took one look at that old camel and said, ‘No way.' The sergeant said, ‘Suit yourself,' and that was the end of it. Five or six weeks go by and I guess the old camel started to look better to Snake because one afternoon we were coming back from patrol, and there he was. While we were gone, he had tied the old camel to the fence, piled some boxes up, and when we saw him, he was up there with his pants down just humping away. The sergeant halted the patrol and watched for a minute. Snake didn't know we were there.
This sergeant had a voice deeper than God and he let out a yell, ‘Kirlin, what the fuck do you think you're doing? Everybody else uses that camel to ride into town on. And that's how I met Snake Kirlin."
We sat there in silence for a few minutes. No one had the good sense to laugh. I think they half believed it. Like I said, it's tough for a detective to get any respect. Finally Jessie excused herself and left the room.
In about thirty seconds we heard a loud scream. We all went running. Jessie was in the bathroom, and she was as white as a sheet.
"What's wrong?" I said.
"There! There!" she said, pointing to the toilet. I raised the lid. Lying in the water of the bowl was a big water moccasin. He could have been the granddaddy of the one I saw on the log, but lying against a background of white porcelain, he looked a hell of a lot more deadly.
Truman brought the fire tongs from the living room fireplace, grabbed the snake behind the head with them, and carried it outside to the driveway, where F.T. cut off its head with a shovel from the garage. We stood there watching the body writhe its life away on the gravel driveway while the head lay quietly with a nasty look in its eye a few feet away. I think we all secretly thought that if we turned away before the movement stopped, the head and body might rejoin for revenge. I know it's silly, but snakes make people do silly things. Take the garden of Eden, for instance.
We went back inside. Jessie was hysterical, and Dawn was comforting her. Jessie had behaved like a trooper throughout this whole affair, but now it was time to make some changes.
"Jessie, F.T. and I are going to spend the night here tonight. We'll sleep on the couches in the
den," I said. No one challenged us, so I continued, "You had better give some serious thought to withdrawing from the election. Whoever is doing this means business. He has already killed Cindy, trying to get to you, and tonight he damn near got you. Being mayor of a one-horse town like Cannibal Springs isn't worth your life."
"He's right, Mother," said Dawn. F.T. and Truman echoed my sentiments.
Jessie was regaining control of herself. She dried her eyes and blew her nose. She was a damn fine looking woman even crying.
"No, I can't withdraw. Not when I have it won. That's the only reason he's trying to kill me. He knows I've got it won, and he's got something to lose. Anyway, I couldn't let Cindy down. If I withdraw, her death would be meaningless. I couldn't do that to her. No, I'm going ahead," she said.
"Oh Lord, spare me the fucking politicians," I thought.
"F.T., what do you think about it?" asked Dawn.
"Your mother is a grown woman. She's got to do what she thinks is best," said F.T.
"That's right, I do. And the best thing for us to do right now is to get some sleep. Good night, all," said Jessie, and she made her exit. It was a bit theatrical, but it was still a good exit.
Truman took the hint and left. I walked him out to the truck.
"What time tomorrow is the funeral?" I asked.
"Two o'clock. Want me to pick y'all up'?" he said. '
"Yeah," I said.
"Before I go, tell me one thing—who do you think is behind all this?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said.
"Bullshit," he said.
I went back into the house. Dawn and F.T. were still sitting at the table, but the empty Jack Daniels bottle had been replaced by a full one. I sat down for a nightcap.
"Snake, you've got to talk Mom into withdrawing from this election. It's not worth her life," said Dawn.
"I don't think it's going to do any good. I don't have that kind of influence on her," I said.
"Bullshit," she said.
That was becoming a popular word around here. I finished my drink and went to bed. I took one of the couches in the den. In a few minutes F.T. came in and took the other. After the goat shed, the couch felt like a featherbed. But I couldn't go to sleep, so I lay on my back staring at the ceiling.
Apparently F.T. didn't have the same trouble. He had not been in bed more than ten minutes before I heard his breathing downshift into a heavier, more regular rhythm. The house was quiet. About an hour passed when I heard someone get up and go to the bathroom. I tiptoed out to the hall and waited. The bathroom door opened, and it was Jessie. She was wearing a blue robe which was open. Underneath, she wore a matching gown cinched just below her breasts. I took her arm and I guided her back to her room. She whispered, "Don't," when I went into the bedroom with her.
Fortunately, I didn't listen. The curtains were open and enough moonlight and streetlight came in for me to see her. I reached down and raised her gown to where it tied under her breasts, and proceeded to make myself right at home. It was good, real good.
Both of us had to keep from crying out when the intense part came. Stolen sex is always like that. The risk of being caught just makes it better.
Later I went back to the den. F.T. was still asleep. I lay down on the couch. This time I
dropped right off to sleep. I woke about dawn and noticed F.T. wasn't on his couch.
"That sly dog," I thought, and then went back to sleep.
Chapter 18
I woke about nine o'clock. F.T. was back on his couch and apparently asleep. I dressed quietly, and went into the kitchen. The good night's sleep had done me a world of good. I felt like a million dollars.
Jessie was cooking breakfast. She was alone. I guess Dawn was still asleep, too. I put my arms around her, gave her a good-morning kiss, and a pat on the behind. She didn't say anything. I I poured myself a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and sat down at the table. The window beside it was open. I looked outside to check out the weather. The day was cloudy, the first cloudy one since we had been home.
The smell of the food cooking and the coffee perking reminded me that I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. I had just poured my second cup of coffee when F.T. came in. He poured himself a cup and sat down at the table. No one had said a word. No one had to. By now the three of us were old friends who'd seen it all
and done it all together. It wasn't necessary to entertain each other. We had passed that stage a lifetime ago—Cindy's lifetime, to be exact. The only sounds in the kitchen were Jessie's as she made breakfast: the grease bubbling as the pork chops and chicken fried, the perking of the coffee, the clack of the knife hitting the chopping board as she sliced tomatoes.
The quiet period ended when Dawn came into the kitchen. Fresh from the shower, she looked radiant in a pair of cutoffs, a T-shirt, and Dr. Scholl's wooden sandals.
"Good morning, everyone," she said as she poured her coffee.
"Good morning," we all echoed.
"Did everyone sleep well?" she asked.
"Like a log," said F .T. I had the impression she meant F.T. when she mentioned everyone.
We sat down to breakfast. F.T. and I were at each end of the table. Dawn and Jessie were on each side. The breakfast was fit for a king: fried chicken, pork chops, fresh tomatoes one day short of being too ripe, and biscuits—homemade biscuits. The art of biscuit making is dead everywhere but the South, and even there it is a dying art. Frozen packaging has done it to us. It has taken all the trouble out of cooking, and all the fun out of eating. Everything has to be quick and easy. Even the simplest things like pancakes and waffles are frozen today, but just try to eat them. They are nothing more than recycled cardboard that you put imitation maple syrup on. Any resemblance in flavor between them and the real thing is purely coincidental. It's no wonder that we have become a nation who breakfasts on a cup of coffee and a cigarette. But Jessie still knew her way around the kitchen. She had taken old-fashioned stone-ground Boiling Fork flour, baking soda, salt, and water and turned it into biscuits at least two inches high, and so light you had to keep the bread basket covered to keep them from floating away. Needless to say, I made a pig of myself. I put fresh sweet butter and homemade blackberry preserves on them and ate until I couldn't force another one down my throat with a ramrod.
Finally, over a last cup of coffee, it was time to get down to business.
"Now that you've had a night to think on it, I what about withdrawing from this election before I your friend finally plants a snake you don't find until it's too late?" I said.
"I'm sorry, I know you have my best interest at heart, but I still feel like I did last night. I can't stop now. It would make Cindy's death a waste. I can't do that. Can't you see that it would be letting her down?" said Jessie.
Like most women, Jessie was a fighter. Unfortunately, it's a quality that most women go through life without ever a chance to show. Maybe the country will wise up when the next war comes and draft women. Let the men sit one out on the bench. Let the women carry the ball. I'll bet it would be a lot more brutal, but I'll bet it would also be over a lot quicker.
This morning Dawn had changed her tune. She was now for her mother continuing in the election.
F.T. and I had no choice. We threw in the towel.
"All right, go ahead. It's your life. Do what you want with it," I said. I know it sounded like sour grapes, but I didn't care. I had a certain physical and emotional involvement in Jessie which gave me the right to feel any damn way I pleased.
"You don't leave us any choice. We have to catch the murderer before he can get to you. To do it, you're going to have to help us. Do you have any idea who it could be?" said F.T.
"No, none," said Jessie.
"Think hard. For a minute let's forget about you running for mayor. That might not be the reason he's trying to kill you. In the past six months or so have you had any trouble with anyone, no matter how slight?" I asked.
"I've been through it time and again in my mind. There's no one I can think of," she said.
"Okay, let's assume that your running for mayor is the correct motive. Who in this town is so against you winning that they would kill you to stop you?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said.
"Bullshit. You have to have some idea," I said.
"You don't understand. I grew up with these people, and I can't think about them that way. They're all my friends," she said.
"All but one. It looks like we'll just have to find him another way. Like they say in football, this game is going to be won or lost by the team that makes the fewest mistakes. Our man has made a few already," said F.T.
"On the other hand we've got to be sure that we don't make any mistakes and let him get to you," I said.
Chapter 19
When Truman picked us up for the funeral, he was wearing the same clothes he had worn yesterday. The black suit was a Robert Hall miracle. Last night in that same suit, he had been punched in the nose, had killed a snake, and had damn near disassembled an entire car. And yet the next morning it was still baggy and still had the same creases from hanging too long on an unpadded hanger. Damn that's quality.
During the drive to the church, I noticed the sky was becoming more overcast. Rain was definitely on the way. We arrived at the First Missionary Baptist Church of Cannibal Springs about a quarter of two.
The church was a long, barnlike brick structure with small patches of green grass on either side of the concrete sidewalk leading to the front steps. I counted the steps as I climbed them. There were seven. I thought of the old Miles Davis song "Seven Steps to Heaven." The foyer was tiled in kitchen lineoleum and smelled like old hymnals. Our heels echoed loudly on the plywood flooring beneath the lineoleum. We entered the church, and I looked around. The back of the church was full, but there were still plenty of seats near the front. Churches always fill the front last. I guess it makes people uncomfortable to be that close to the eye of God.
We tiptoed up the aisle until we found seats. The pews were made of white oak and designed in such a way as to be totally uncomfortable. I'm sure that more than an hour per week of sitting on one would cause hemorrhoids.
The coffin was already there, positioned directly in front of the pulpit like a buffet lunch. Behind and to either side of the pulpit were large, thronelike chairs done in red velvet where only God's most trusted dared to sit. Behind the chairs was a waist-high railing which separated the preacher from the choir. On the wall behind the choir was a large picture of Jesus which split down the middle and hinged so that it could be opened to reveal the movie screen behind it. The only thing it didn't do was light up.
The whole place reeked of the clawing, sickly-sweet smell of the flowers which had been placed over, under, around, and beside the coffin. There were so many that they almost hid the clean, sleek lines of the bronze box. What a sales brochure would call "a design of classic simplicity."
Buying a coffin is very much like buying a new car. You go into a showroom where the salesman shows you various models and explains all the options which run the sticker price up. You discuss color, upholstery, and optional trim, and sometimes in a fit of enthusiasm, you might even be tempted to kick the tires. As I looked at Cindy's coffin, I couldn't help wondering if she had AM-FM.
I looked the crowd over. All the same old faces were there. Jessie and Dawn were across the aisle and two rows closer to the front. They were both dressed in black, and without meaning to, looked damn sexy. I mentally scolded myself for having horny thoughts during such a solemn occasion. Meditate, I told myself. Use this time to make yourself grow in manhood. Grapple, here and now, with the unpleasantness of death and your own fragile mortality. Come to grips with the fact that one day all that will be left of you will be a handful of dirt and worm shit. At least that's what I told myself. To be truthful, I didn't waste a lot of time dwelling on the unpleasantness of death. Death may not be at all unpleasant, but thinking about it.
Scattered among the crowd were all the old faces, but everyone looked different dressed up. This was the first time I had ever seen Virgil wear a tie. He was wearing a blue double-knit suit, a red patterned shirt with a long collar, and a white tie. Very patriotic. Flo sat next to him, looking pure as the driven snow in her funeral black. Still no sign of her husband. I made a note to check that out. Lou Young was there, but he was al
so without his wife. I made a mental note to check that, too. Jim Henry and Buck Hill were there. Buck Hill had spit-shined his belt and holster for the occasion. Every time he moved, all that leather creaked like an old saddle. The man F.T. had punched was there with the same woman I had seen him with at the funeral home. This time I looked her over more carefully. The hairstyle was still new and the dress old, but those weren't the important things. The important thing was the woman herself. She had a plain face which was neither unpleasant nor unhappy. It was a strong face, and she had a thin, straight, wiry body to match. Yet there was some beauty there. Not beauty in the magazine or movie sense, but beauty like an old maple tree that has seen some winters come and go. She was easily worth ten of her husband.
Right at two o'clock the pianist sat down at the piano. She played a couple of quiet numbers to loosen her fingers. About two-fifteen the side door opened, and Hulan's gospel group, Gospel Glory Train, filed into the choir's space. There were three fat women and Hulan in the group. They were wearing matching beige choir robes. The only sign of color in the whole group was Hulan's blue and white polka-dot bow tie. They began by singing "In the Garden," following it with "Whispering Hope" and "Amazing Grace," and closing with "Just as I Am." None of them were traditional funeral songs, but they were melodic, beautifully sung, and altogether fitting. As the last bars of "Just as I Am" faded, the Reverend Raymond J. Teasdale ascended to the pulpit, Bible in hand. He was a large man in his forties, who had gotten soft and flabby. When he walked, he still had enough pride or vanity to suck it in, but it was a losing battle. What he really needed was less Sunday dinners and more roadwork. He was wearing an electric-blue sharkskin suit and a silk tie. His hair was oily and combed back in the George Wallace style. He oozed the sincerity of a man who had spent a lifetime as a carnival barker and life insurance salesman.
He cleared his throat and began, "As I look out over the congregation, I see many of the same faces I saw at today's morning worship service. Unfortunately, this afternoon we return to God's house with heavy hearts for it is our sad duty to say goodbye to one from our midst. Our Bible teaches us to weep at birth and rejoice at death, because with the passing, the spirit goes to a better place. But so often our own grief at the loss of our loved one clouds our thoughts and minds, and makes us blind to God's will. Grief is no sin. For to grieve is to love, and Christianity teaches us to love. To love our mothers and fathers, our husbands and wives, our children, our neighbors, our country, and even our enemies, though they be the very same enemies who cause us injury or even death.