Header 2

by Edward Lee

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  The chill, quiet night stretched on, and as the fire diminished to eerie, phosphoric embers, Helton—in calmer voice now—told the rest of the story to Dumar and Micky-Mack. Helton ate his squirrel with gusto, but the younger men scarcely picked at theirs, their appetite hindered partly from the revulsion of what had just been related to them, but mostly from the distraction of what could only be called macabre fascination. Helton’s commanding finger wagged at them. “I want you boys to eat, ya hear me, even if yer bellies don’t feel like they need a fillin’. For what’s comin’ up? We all gonna need our strength’n stamina.”

  Dumar’s voice was a feeble etching. “A header’s what you mean, huh, Paw?”

  “We’se gonna have ourselfs a header, ain’t we, Unc Helton?”

  “That we is—”

  “On this Paulie man,” Dumar finished the speculation.

  Helton shook his shaggy head. “It’ll be his head we hump last, son, ’cos, see, the full effect of a header come from fuckin’ the brains’a your enemy’s kin first. With God’s help’n a little luck, we’ll be able to do it.”

  Dumar couldn’t have appeared more uncomprehending. “But why, Paw? Why this man Paulie do that horrible thing ta my son?”

  Helton’s voice clicked. “I’ll tell ya,” and his stained teeth stripped the tender meat off the roasted squirrel’s ribs. “Micky-Mack, you’se too young, but Dumar, you probably ‘member my brother Tuff—”

  “Aw, yeah, Paw, I ‘member Uncle Tuff, shore.”

  “And ya both likely ‘member Jake Martin who ever-body called Grandpap Martin.”

  Nods from both of the younger men. Micky-Mack said, “Oh, shore, Unc, I ‘member him—he was a great old guy. He made me a pair’a fine boots when I were a tike.”

  “Me, too,” Dumar said.

  Helton raised a big booted foot. “Made these fer me twennie-five years ago, and to this day they ain’t busted a stitch. See, Grandpap Martin were the best cobbler in the county—”

  “Yeah,” Dumar recollected, “and it were weird on account’a him not havin’ no feet.”

  “A shoemaker,” Micky-Mack pondered, “with no feet…”

  Helton sucked some warm marrow. “It was some disease he got, so’s a doctor in Pulaski cut his feet off,” Helton said, “but that didn’t keep ole Grandpap’s spirit down, no sir. A fine, fine man he was, and, see, Grandpap’s only daughter was Joycie Martin, and she married my brother Tuff, and what they done is, they had theirselfs a son named Travis Tuckton.”

  Dumar and Micky-Mack traded grave glances.

  “I heard’a Travis Tuckton,” Micky-Mack said diffusely.

  “Me, too,” Dumar said, “though I don’t recall meetin’ him.”

  “Travis were a good boy mostly but just couldn’t keep out’a trouble when ya get right down to it,” Helton informed. “Got a 5-year jolt in the county detent but wound up doin’ twelve ’cos he wouldn’t take no shit from the cons. But I ain’t surprised that ya both heard’a him ’cos he’s got kind of a…repper-tay-shun ’round these parts.”

  Dumar nodded. “Folk kind’a whisper ’bout him, like he’s some kind’a backwoods hero but, ya know? They never say why…”

  “Ain’t surprisin’. Travis were a hero, all right, along with Grandpap Martin, and now…I’ll’se tell ya all ’bout it ’cos it’s time ya learnt.” Helton took a breath, like a long-winded character in a novel that insists on propelling backstory in passive, static scenes like this. “Nineteen, twennie years ago it was, my brother Tuff owned some shit-land ’round Luntville, hunnert acres or so. Weren’t worth a bucket’a mule puke so’s he just kind’a forgot about it. Then one day this cracker come along sayin’ he wants to buy it’n he offer Tuff a hunnert dollars a acre. So’s Tuff said, shore, and he even tolt him that the land weren’t nothin’ but scrub but he tell Tuff he wants it anyway, so a’course, Tuff sold it to him fair’n square…or so he thought. But, see, this fella, what he done is he found out that land had valuable stuff on it—”

  “What kind’a stuff, Paw?”

  “Natural gas, deep down underground,” and Helton pronounced “natural” as natch-rull. “S’what city folks use fer heat’n ‘lecktricity, and it turnt out there was so much natural gas on that land, it made the fella that bought it a millionaire overnight—”

  “What a kick in the ass for Uncle Tuff!” Micky-Mack commiserated.

  “Oh, yeah. The fella that bought it knew ’bout all that natural gas but, a’course, didn’t tell Tuff, instead payin’ him shit money and gettin’ hisself rich.” Helton eyed both Dumar and Micky-Mack. “That fella’s name was Thibald Caudill.”

  Dumar and Micky-Mack’s faces showed no recognition.

  “After Caudill rip Tuff off, he bought hisself a big, fancy mansion in Pulaski, and he come back to our neck’a the woods ever so often—drivin’ a fuckin’ Rolls Royce—just to laugh at us all over the screw-job he pulled on Tuff. Liked ta rub our faces in the fact we was poor and he weren’t. So what we do is we all pitched in some money and give it to Tuff, and he hired hisself a citified lawyer, and what that lawyer tolt him was there was laws now—some law ’bout sales made in bad faith—that might make it so Tuff could sue Caudill fer what he stolt from him…”

  “Then Uncle Tuff’d be a millionaire,” Dumar deduced.

  “Um-hmm, but that never happened…”

  “So how come that fancy lawyer didn’t sue Thibald Caudill?” Micky-Mack asked.

  “On account Tuff and his wife Joycie up’n died.”

  Dumar nodded at the dim memory. “Car accident, weren’t it?

  “Weren’t no accident, son. It was murder. Once Caudill got wind that Tuff was fixin’ ta sue, one night he’n his two boys, they followed Tuff’n Joycie back from that lawyer’s office”—Helton made an angry fist—“and they up’n run ’em off the road—”

  “No!” Micky-Mack and Dumar exclaimed.

  “—and they crashed in a gully. Poor Tuff, he shoot right through the windshield’n died instantly…”

  “What about Aunt Joycie?” Dumar asked. “She go through the windshield too?”

  “No,” Helton said very resolutely. “She didn’t. See, Joycie was wearin’ her seatbelt, so’s she lived—”

  “But you just said—” Micky-Mack blurted.

  “Joycie weren’t kilt in the wreck, no.” Helton ground his teeth. “But what Caudill’n his two boys do is they pulled poor Joycie out the car”—he had to pause—“and they tore off alls her clothes”—another pause, his face reddening—“and they dragged her up on the hood”—Helton began to simmer—“and they pult their dirty dicks out and they got theirselfs a ball-peen and they cracked up the top’a Joycie’s skull”—and he flew into another rage, shuddering—“and they HAD THEIRSELFS A HEADER!”

  Dumar covered his face with his hands while Micky-Mack brought his arms ’round his belly and just moaned.

  “Weren’t enough,” Helton’s voice cracked and boomed, “fer Caudill to steal the millions that was rightfully Tuff’s, and it weren’t enough to kill him ta boot! No! Caudill, he hadda have more! He hadda fuck Tuff’s poor wife in the head!”

  “No, no, no,” Micky-Mack moaned.

  “And his boys did it too, all standin’ ’round cacklin’ and hee-hawwin’ like the devils they was. They each put a nut in Joycie’s brain, they did, but Caudill even bragged later up the Crossroads that his youngest boy Crow, he knew the story ’bout how Clyde Martin and Lem Tuckton done fucked General Hildreth’s head three times, so’s he said, ‘Anythin’ a low-down Martin or Tuckton can do, I’se kin do better!’ and then he fucked Joycie’s head four times—just ta one up the family!”

  “It’s horrible, horrible, Paw!” Dumar wailed.

  Helton calmed back down, thumbing a tear or two from his eyes. “Horrible is right, but at least there’s a happy endin’ to this story. See, Tuff’s son Travis Tuckton, he were in the county slam when all this happened, and all Grandpap Martin ever tol
d him was that his folks got kilt in a tragic car wreck; Travis didn’t need ta know the truth, not in stir, ’cos the boy, shee-it—he had it bad enough. But when they let him out, Grandpap tolt him what really happened, and Travis flew inta such a swivet, he swore on his Maw’n Paw’s graves that he would avenge ’em, and that is when Grandpap tolt Travis the in’s and out’s of havin’ a header.” Helton reached behind him and produced the King Edward cigar box that Micky-Mack had fetched for him earlier. “See, there’s better ways’a havin’ a header now, boys. Bashin’ in the top’a the skull’s fine but, see, sometimes ya can git bone-slivers stuck in the brain and then ya stick yer pecker in and—YOW!—next thing ya know, that bone-sliver’s stickin’ in yer dick!”

  “Holy fuck!” Dumar recoiled at the image.

  Micky-Mack protectively covered his crotch. “Dang, Unc! Cain’t think’a anything that could hurt more’n that!”

  Helton nodded grimly. “Happened to a fella once, Sisal Conner, who done got wronged one way or another by Jeremiah Croll, so’s Sisal, he snatched one’a Croll’s kids and threw a header on him. He busted a hole in the kid’s head, but the second he slipped his stiffer up inta the brain-meat, he up’n scream bloody murder. See, he weren’t careful enough with the ball-peen’n he wind up catchin’ a bone-sliver right in his dick-knob, he did. Pult his pecker out’a there and it squirted blood halfways across the room!” Helton opened the cigar box. “But, see, long time ago, like in the ‘50s, I reckon, Grandpap Martin came up with a safer way. Instead’a usin’ the ball-peen, ya use one’a these,” and from the box he withdrew several old, rusty hole-saw blades. “All ya’s do is lock down one’a these in the chuck of a power drill and ya saw a hole in the skull’a the person yer fixin’ ta head-hump.”

  “Wow!” Micky-Mack exclaimed.

  “Pretty dang smart fer thinkin’a that,” Dumar observed.

  “Cuts a perfect hole ever time,” Helton went on, and he passed the cylindrical blades around for the younger men to see.

  Dumar deduced, “So’s…did Travis ‘ventually throw a header on Caudill?”

  “Yeah, he shore did—”

  “And it were one’a these here hole-saws that Travis Tuckton used?”

  “Naw, the actual one used on Caudill disser-peered. Word is it was took by a poe-leece man—”

  “The poe-leece!” Micky-Mack shrilled.

  Helton wagged his finger. “Lemme finish tellin’ the story, boy… Now, it were Grandpap who not only told Travis the truth ’bout what happened to his folks, it was him who taught Travis how to have a header, and what they did then—God bless ’em—well, they kind’a went on a header rampage, havin’ headers on the kin’a dang near anyone whoever’d wronged the Tucktons or the Martins in the past. It was kind’a like…practice, see? But by the time they was ready, they was experts in the art of throwin’ a header.” Helton smiled and whispered. “And then one day, they gots their chance. They got their hands on Thibald Caudill hisself, and they hole-sawed that cracker’s skull and they humped the shit out’a his head. Travis, he was so twisted up inside with hatred, he fucked Caudill’s brain ta porridge, and the outrage that had been done ta his fine parents was finally avenged.”

  “Thank God!” Dumar said.

  Helton collected back up the hole-saw blades. “Now, the actual blade used on Caudill’s head, like I said, it disser-peered. ’cos, see, not long after they had their header on Caudill, a cop discovered ’em and shot both Travis’n Grandpap dead right in Grandpap’s old shack by the deadfall.”

  “Aw, dang!” Micky-Mack said.

  “Yeah, but they got the job done, and that’s all that matters,” Helton said. He emphasized, “Family’s all that matters when ya get right down to it.”

  The fire’s dwindling embers tainted their faces in ghostly orange. But Micky-Mack seemed antsy about something, and Helton noticed this and ordered, “Say what’s on your mind, boy?” even though he had a good idea what it was.

  “Unc Helton?” the 20-year-old asked. “Have you…ever been to a header?”

  Helton breathed deep. “Tain’t sayin’ I’m proud’n I ain’t sayin’ I’m ashamed…but, yeah, boys. I had a couple’a headers back in the day. The why’s’n wherefores don’t matter. It’s just that several times we was offended in ways so dag-blasted low-down that a header was the only way ta git justice.” He looked idly at the rusted hole-saws. “It were Grandpap Martin, my brother Tuff, and me. See, fellas, our families didn’t never treat headers willy-nilly. We respected the law of the hills and only threw headers when someone deserved it. Shee-it, Tuff never did no wrong ta Thibald Caudill, not never. It was Caudill’s greed, and his sheer fuckin’ evil that got him ta doin’ what he did.”

  “And he got what he deserved,” Dumar said with some satisfaction.

  “Yeah, he shore did, and I’se hopin’ that Satan hisself is butt-fuckin’ that old rube as we speak. ’cos, see, some folks—folks like Caudill—they’se so sick’n twisted’n just plain wicked that they’se throw headers when they got no business. They do it…’cos they like it, and that’s just the most devilish thing that hillfolk can ever do.”

  Micky-Mack looked overwhelmed. “Shee-it, Unc. How could anyone like cuttin’ a hole in someone’s head’n fuckin’ their brain?”

  Helton deliberated over a response. “Well, son, for the reasons I just tolt ya: ’cos they’se evil, but…but…” He sighed. “There’s another reason, too.”

  “What reason could that be, Paw?”

  Helton rubbed his eyes. “Aw, son, I’ll be honest with ya. See, there’s somethin’ ’bout havin’ a header—just…somethin’… Dang, I might as well just say it. There’s somethin’ ’bout a freshly opened head, and the brain inside’a that head, that makes it good ta fuck.”

  “What’cha mean by that, Unc?” the ever-inquiring Micky-Mack asked.

  “What I mean, boy—and this is what has caused some ta stray—what I mean is, gettin’ yer nut in a brain? It feels better than any nut you ever had, better’n the best pussy ya ever fucked, better’n the best mouth or butt you ever come in…” Helton stroked his beard. “Don’t know why, just does.”

  “Dang,” Dumar remarked.

  “And you two’ll be findin’ out ’bout that a right quick,” Helton went on as the woods seemed to darken around them, and grow colder and colder. “What I ain’t ‘splained to ya yet is what this man Paulie’s got ta do with any’a this.”

  “Yeah, Paw, I was fixin’ ta ask.”

  Helton looked grimly at his son. “Li’l Crory’s awful murder was Paulie gettin’ revenge against Grandpap and Travis for fuckin’ Thibald Caudill’s head.”

  “Oh, so this Paulie fella, he one’a Caudill’s kin?”

  “Well, sort’a. See, Paulie married Caudill’s daughter Marshie. Shee-it, Marshie Caudill was damn shore the best-lookin piece’a ass in the whole fuckin’ county, boys. Tits and ass and legs that’d make a grown man cry. She’d been workin’ a seedy strip joint in Pulaski since she was 16, and turnt plenty’a tricks too’s what I heard. Even had herself a trick-baby from a john that knocked her up. But after Thibald Caudill got head-humped ta death, Marshie, she inherit her daddy’s big mansion and all that money, so she buy that strip joint she work all them years in. Still owns the place ta this day. Reckon she must be ’bout your age now, Dumar.”

  Dumar slowly nodded. “Now ya mention it, I have heard’a her. Me’n Harley Benner was walkin’ back from cuttin’ wood one day, walkin’ along Big Boon Road, and this weird-lookin’ fancy silver car drive by. There were a hot blond drivin’ it, Paw, and I’se mean she had tits stickin’ out till next week. But then ya know what she done? When she see us, she makes a evil face’n up’n give us the finger, and that’s when Harley Benner say, ‘That there is Marshie Caudill.’”

  Helton was not surprised. “It was her, all right, son, and you’re right. Righteous pair’a tits on the bitch, yessir. And, see, just like her devilsh daddy, she still drive through these parts—damn
near ever mornin’, I’se heard. Drive all the way from Pulaski to where we all live. Likes ta see where she come from, and remind herself she don’t live here no more on account of her daddy’s money. And that weird car? It were the self-same Rolls Royce Thibald Caudill used ta drive. I even seed her a couple’a times up close—in Luntville—still lookin’ good as she ever did, tits hangin’ perfect’n all high’n might, nipples stickin’ out like fuckin’ rivets, ass swayin’ back’n forth in her fancy dresses. Paulie’s proper name is Paul Vinchetti—see, he’s a Eye-tallion type, and he’s in this group they call, I think, the MAFF-ee-uh.”

  “What the hail’s that?” Micky-Mack asked.

  “He’s like a gangster, you know? A big whup-dee-doo criminal—see, he’s into what they call organized crime.” Need it be elucidated that Helton pronounced the word “organized” as organnazzed? “Don’t rightly know how it all works, just that Paulie’s pig-shit rich from sellin’ drugs and gettin’ profits from gamblin’ and such. And several years ago, he and his boys, they started selling their drugs ’round these parts, see? And one night he’s in the strip joint Marshie Caudill owns and he gets one look at Marshie and he fall head-over-heels in love with the whore, so much so in fact that he up’n marries her.”

  “Well, how you like that?” Dumar said.

  “Must’a been Marshie tolt him ’bout how the Tucktons and Martins was responsible fer Thibald Caudill gettin’ his head fucked.”