by Alex Bledsoe
“I’m not. But I can’t operate on that idea, either.” The truck bounced as they went over a ditch, and the dogs in their crates barked their disapproval.
“So what’s your plan, then?” Dolph said.
“I’ll just keep my eyes and ears open, and keep checking for sign.”
Dolph gave him a sideways, knowing smile. “Does that include sign from a certain dark-eyed young lady? I think you’re already making plenty of headway with her.”
* * *
Ginny Vipperman sat on the edge of Janet’s bed, softly playing a slow, methodical version of “Dizzi Jig” on a hammered dulcimer. They were aware of the funerals, and of course had known both Kera and Adam, but they were from the other group, and so they knew they wouldn’t be welcome. Besides, Janet was obsessed with getting her story on their deaths just right, so she’d gone over and over it.
Ginny stopped and said, “You ever thought about redoing this like Constance Denby? With some low bass strings so it sounds like it’s got some balls?”
Janet took a drag off the joint they shared and passed it to her friend. This dope was known locally as Gitterman’s Gold, since it was harvested from some plants left to grow wild and unattended since Dwayne Gitterman’s death some years earlier. Only a handful of people knew where it was, and they made their money selling it down in Knoxville, or at truck stops along the interstate. Those in Needsville and Cloud County got the “Tufa discount.”
“I don’t need my dulcimer to have balls,” Janet said. “That’s what an autoharp’s for.”
She turned back and stared at her laptop screen, her nose wrinkled in thought until Ginny said, “You’re making that face again.”
“What face?”
“The one that either says, ‘I’m thinking real hard,’ or ‘I smell something real bad.’”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“What I need to call that giant hog in my story. I mean, ‘Hogzilla’ is taken.”
“‘Hog Kong’?”
“Too obvious.”
Ginny put the dulcimer aside, handed the joint back to Janet, and tapped the handle of one of the dulcimer hammers against her lips as she slowly exhaled smoke. “How about ‘the Baconator’?”
“No, that’s a sandwich.”
“‘Snuffles’?”
Janet turned and looked at her. “Seriously?”
“Fine, smart gal. You come up with something.”
Janet pondered for a moment. “‘Uberhog.’”
“Does it wear a cape and threaten a superhero?”
Janet giggled. “‘The Evil Dr. Porkchop.’”
Ginny snorted. “‘Truffles the Mighty.’”
Now they both laughed. There was a knock at the door, and Janet’s father called, “Y’all getting high in there?”
“You bet!” Janet answered. They giggled some more. Her dad always asked that when they made too much noise, but he had no idea how often he was right. Then again, they had no idea how often they failed to fool him. He’d just rather have them stoned in Janet’s bedroom than somewhere else.
“Does he really think you burn that much sage?” Ginny asked Janet after they heard his footsteps fade.
“I do burn a lot of sage,” Janet said. “That way he doesn’t notice the weed.”
“How about ‘Hogwild’?” Ginny suggested.
“Sounds like he should be judging a wet T-shirt contest.”
“‘Bighoof’?” When Janet looked blank, Ginny added, “You know, like Bigfoot?”
“Oh, I got it. But no.” Janet picked up her guitar and began to noodle on it. Ginny knew it always helped her friend think, so she lay back on the bed, put one arm behind her head, and drew long and hard on the joint. “Maybe,” Ginny said at last, “we should just give it a person’s name.”
“What, like ‘Steven’?” Janet said.
“Yeah. Maybe something from politics. Like ‘Trump,’ or ‘Hilary.’”
“‘Nixon’?” Janet suggested, and they both giggled again. Then she said, “How about a diminutive? You know, a cutesy name, something to make it seem less dangerous?”
“‘Porky’?”
“‘Muffin.’”
“‘Tiny.’”
“‘Li’l Bit.’”
“‘Bacon Bit.’”
“‘Hamdinger.’”
Ginny suddenly sat up and snapped her fingers. “‘Piggly-Wiggly’!”
“Perfect!” Janet cried, and quickly typed the words into her laptop. Her story for the Raven’s Caw was finished, and she added the old-fashioned “30” at the end.
15
Kera’s funeral was held later that day, at the Rogerses’ house. Unlike the event for Adam, this one drew people from both sides of the Tufa. Nothing brought people together like the death of a beautiful girl, and Kera was well liked by everyone.
Cars and trucks lined the gravel road leading up to the Rogers farm, and four picnic tables had been strung together in the front yard to hold all the food. Cyrus Crow catered it for free, standing behind the steam tables and ladling massive portions of barbecue, mashed potatoes, and other Southern dishes onto plastic plates.
An ad hoc band of elderly fiddlers, banjo pickers, and guitarists sat in the shade of a huge maple tree, playing lively instrumentals. There would be no sad songs here; dying dirges served an entirely different purpose.
Duncan arrived in his family’s ancient LTD. He rode in the passenger seat, the air conditioner blasting full into his face. He wore a suit that he’d borrowed from a cousin, one that was too big for him and smelled of weed and some kind of chemical solvent. At least he’d managed to wear his own tennis shoes, despite the shiny black hard-sole ones left for him. He dared someone to criticize him.
His father, Saggory, a.k.a. “Sag,” drove resentfully, his shirt collar and tie so tight around his baggy neck that it looked like it was pinching off his head. His mother, Bobbie, wore her black funeral dress, and his big brother, Poole, wore just a polo shirt and jeans.
“Look at all these dumb rednecks,” Sag muttered as he sought a closer place to park. “Half of ’em barely knew that girl. The other half just wanted to see her nekkid.”
“Hush, Sag,” Bobbie said.
“It’s true. Ain’t it, Poole?”
“Maybe you should listen to your wife,” Poole said flatly. He and Sag had never really gotten along, and the tension only grew stronger now that Poole was out on his own. He was here not for Sag, or even for Duncan, but for their mom. Poole was the kind of man who, if he got called a son of a bitch, got into a fight because you’d insulted his mother.
Duncan snapped, “Why don’t every last one of you shut the fuck up, okay?”
They did, until Sag said, “There we go,” and pulled into a space behind a mud-spattered Jeep.
Duncan got out of the car and strode toward the house. He felt every eye on him, the mourning boyfriend who’d lost not just his girl, but also his best friend. Two funerals in one day was rare in Cloud County; the last time it had happened, it was the memorial service for Bo-Kate Wisby and Jefferson Powell, and that had been as much a celebration of their demise as a wake.
He couldn’t look at any of them. How many, he wondered, knew about Kera and Adam, and thought he was just being a “good Tufa man” for sharing his girl with his best friend? No, he and Kera didn’t have any exclusive arrangement, but at the same time, wasn’t it just polite to let him in on it? She had no obligation, true … but why didn’t she?
Because he would have resented it and broken things off with her. She had to know that.
The crowd seemed enormous, all with Tufa-black hair except for the elderly whites and grays. Many were children, who played both games and instruments as if they were at a park. Duncan understood that services like this were as much a celebration of life as they were a marker of death, but that made it no easier to endure. In a way, he preferred the tight, grim send-off Adam had received that morning.
; He went into the house without speaking to anyone. Inside, the furniture was pushed back against the walls to make room. People milled about in small groups and spoke in low tones, and although some turned to look at him, none stopped talking as he passed.
He went to the refrigerator and took out a beer. When he closed the door, Mandalay Harris stood right there. He almost yelled in surprise.
“Sorry,” the girl said. She was clad in a simple black dress, with her black hair pulled up into a severe bun. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t, I’m just a little tense,” he said. He twisted off the cap, turned up the bottle, and drank a long draft.
“Two funerals in one day would make anyone tense. How are you making it otherwise?”
He shrugged without meeting her eyes. “All right, I guess.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Before he could answer, Junior Damo popped up next to them. He wore a pin-striped suit, and his hair was slicked back from his forehead. He resembled nothing so much as a public-access evangelist. “What are you two talking about?”
“I’m expressing my condolences,” Mandalay said.
“He’s one of mine,” Junior said.
“I think he belongs to himself,” Mandalay said firmly. “And he’s a Tufa, just like the rest of us. He’s suffered a loss, and I’m giving him my sympathies.”
“Yeah, well, you should check with me before you…”
His voice trailed off as she fixed him with a withering look.
“You’re just a kid,” he managed to croak out.
“Then challenge me.”
When he realized neither one was going to back down, Duncan said, “Uh, guys? This may not be the place for this.”
“You’re exactly right,” Mandalay agreed. “This is not.” She turned away from Junior, who let out an audible gasp of relief. She asked Duncan, “Has there been any word about the animal that did this? Has it been dealt with?”
“Not that I know of,” Duncan said. “Nobody’s told me anything, at any rate.”
“Well, let’s hope they find it soon, before anyone else suffers.” With a final look at Junior, she turned and went to speak with a group of women in black. Junior stayed, sweat trickling down from his Brylcreemed hairline.
Junior scanned the room and said, “Lordy, there’s Deedee Pillow. This must be the first party she’s been to where she didn’t jump out of a cake.” Then he turned to Duncan with a little conspiratorial smile. “So you took my advice, I see.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Duncan said hollowly.
“Sure you do. You and Adam were close, right? And you always want what your friend has. Especially when it looks that good in blue jeans.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Duncan mumbled, unable to meet his eyes. “The pig did it. Besides, Kera could see whoever she wanted.”
“Of course,” Junior said with a wink. “Well, don’t worry, it’s safe with me.”
Like Mandalay, Junior sauntered away to mingle with the others. Duncan looked down at the beer in his hand, which trembled like a can in a paint mixer. Foam sloshed out onto the floor.
A big hand settled on his shoulder. He looked up sharply to see Doyle Collins, who ran the gas station where Kera worked. “Hey, Duncan.”
Beside him, his wife, Berklee, stood in a black dress. Her eyes were red from crying. She said, “I am so sorry to hear about Kera, and then Adam. You must feel awful.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, if there’s anything we can do—”
“Thank you.”
Berklee looked up at Doyle, who was probably the tallest man in the room, and one of the few without jet-black hair. His Tufa blood was faint, but he was a good man and most everyone trusted him.
Doyle leaned close to Duncan. “Kera left some odds and ends at the shop. I thought I’d give you first crack at them before I tell her parents. Just come by when you have a moment.”
“Sure,” Duncan said, knowing he’d never do it. He had enough of Kera’s odds and ends bouncing around in his head.
* * *
Eventually everyone took seats in the folding chairs borrowed from the high school. They made four short rows in the living room. Duncan, Renny, and Kera’s parents took the front row. Her brother and sister sat right behind them.
Azure Kirby, a folklore professor and a respected “granny-woman” in the community, stood before them. She had taught Kera how to read the clouds and predict the weather when she was a little girl. With great dignity, she said, “I’d like to tell you a little bit about Kera Rogers.”
While she spoke, Duncan stared past her at a stain on the wallpaper, just as he’d done at Adam’s service. His suit, previously too large, now felt tight and uncomfortable, like too-small armor.
“Y’all know when Kera was born, where she went to school, and when and how she died,” Azure said. “I’m not going to dwell on that. What I’m going to tell you is some things you maybe didn’t know.
“She was a hell of a mechanic, as Doyle Collins will back up. She learned to change oil before she was six, and brake pads by the time she was ten. These newfangled computer-controlled engines didn’t throw her off, either. She could run down an electrical problem faster than you could tell it. In fact, one reason she always painted her nails black was because that way she didn’t have to dig the grease out from under them all the time.”
Some people chuckled at this. Duncan did not. He had no idea; she’d never mentioned it.
“She also knew her way around a song,” Azure continued. “When she was a little girl, I’d hear her squawking on a pennywhistle, trying to force the notes into the right shape. You couldn’t show her anything; she had to figure it out for herself. It was the exact opposite of the way she learned about cars, and just goes to show that people are more complicated than you might know.”
Duncan slid down in his seat.
“We should be proud of Kera, for being true to herself. So many young women of her age are defined by their husbands, boyfriends, or even children. They never learned to be true to themselves, because the world never let them. The folks of this community, we pride ourselves on that, and that pride let Kera live a life, short as it was, that was nevertheless a true one.”
Azure nodded, and three older people, all with instruments, came to the front of the room. They began to play, softly, Enya’s “On My Way Home.” Duncan heard sniffling around him, but he had nothing left.
* * *
In his dreams that night, Duncan relived the moment over and over. There was Adam, the wild hog—having grown to the size of a bus in his subconscious—looming out of the forest behind him. There was even a red circle on the animal’s fur, a literal target showing where Duncan should shoot.
Adam stood there oblivious. And then Kera walked out of the woods and into his arms. They kissed, and his hands roamed all over her. Then the hog opened its mouth, revealing yard-long tusks in rows all the way back to its cavernous throat. It swallowed them whole, and as its maw closed, blood squirted out.
He woke up sweating, and wondered if he’d actually screamed. But since no one came running, he assumed he hadn’t.
He was in his old bedroom at home. The family’s two dogs lay on the floor beside it, and neither had awoken with him. He scooted back to sit against the headboard, and ran a hand through his tangled hair. There would be no sleeping for the rest of the night, he knew from the pounding in his chest.
He quietly dressed, put on a Jack Daniel’s baseball cap over his sleep-matted hair, and slipped out of the house. He started his car and drove into town, where he knew the Fast Grab would be open. Old Mr. Tirrell was working the late shift, reading a book about a cemetery by someone with the last name of Eco. He looked up as Duncan entered, but didn’t seem surprised.
“Can’t sleep?” he said as he tucked a lottery ticket into the book to mark his place.
“No,” Duncan said.
“Heard what happ
ened. Not sure I could sleep, either. Want to buy a lottery ticket? Powerball’s up to ninety million.”
Duncan ignored him and walked to the beer cooler. He normally drank Budweiser, but tonight he grabbed a quart bottle of Colt 45.
As he took it to the counter, the door jingled again. Renny Procure entered, in cutoffs and a T-shirt, her hair spilling haphazardly from beneath her cowboy hat. She stopped dead when she saw Duncan.
She nodded at the malt liquor bottle. “That looks serious.”
“Serious as I can get without breaking into the liquor store in Unicorn,” Duncan said. He was struck by how beautiful she looked in her fresh-from-sleep state. How had he never noticed this before? And what was wrong with him that he noticed it now?
“Well, then, we’re here for the same reason,” she said. “Want some help finishing that off?”
“Decide soon,” Tirrell said. “I have to stop selling in three minutes.”
“Ring it up twice,” Renny said, and strode back to the cooler. “And add an iced coffee.” She grabbed her own bottle of malt liquor and followed him out to his car with the two drinks. She’d driven Adam’s truck, and the sight of it made Duncan catch his breath.
“Come with me,” she said, and grabbed his arm. “Adam would want us to tell him good-bye in his truck. He loved that thing more than anything.”
Almost anything, Duncan thought, but he climbed into the passenger seat as he’d done so many times. She started the engine and floored it, slinging gravel out of the parking lot.
They tore through the night, and Duncan held tightly to the oh-shit handle above the door. Renny drained the iced coffee, then pulled off the lid with her teeth and began chewing on the ice. She hit a bump, and ice flew into her face.
“Dammit!” she said in mock outrage. “I eat ice all the time without spilling it, and now look at me. I blame you.”
Reflexively, Duncan shot back, “Hey, if you can’t hit your own ice hole, it’s not my fault.”
She barked out a surprised laugh. Duncan couldn’t help but smile. After all the heaviness, it felt almost supernaturally good to be amused again.
Secure that no police would stop them, he opened one of the bottles. She grabbed it before he could drink and turned it up for a long chugging swallow. Then she handed it back to him and belched.