Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  Our plans for the day settled, I finished eating and sucked down a second cup of coffee. On my way out the door, I paused to root through the junk drawer in the kitchen, looking for the tape measure. Every kitchen has a junk drawer, I suppose -- the place where everything a body might need but didn't have a regular spot to keep it went, usually mixed in with stuff that should've been thrown out years ago. I riffled through old business cards, mostly for stores long gone under, like the Bee-n-Bonnet Barber Shop, which closed fifteen years ago after Sonny Marisso, the barber, died. I spotted what I was looking for pushed way in the back, hidden under a paper program for the 1990 county fair and a half-dozen old-fashioned bottle openers. Holding the tape measure up, grinning like I'd found the Holy Grail, I headed out to the stable to measure the bar wall for the mirror panels.

  It was tacked up to the front door of Outland like a grisly door knocker. Streaks of gore dripped down; the dirt at the foot of the door stained darker where the blood pooled before the ground soaked it up. God knows where they found the peacock -- probably caught one over at the city park in Bixby. I remembered the Bixby mayor bringing in a handful of them after he'd had the town's fancy white gazebo built. Thought folks would want to rent the space out for weddings and such, although nobody ever had, as far as I knew.

  The bird had been eviscerated, cut open from neck to tail and tacked to the door, left to bleed out, its colorful tail carefully pinned in a spray around it. Who ever done it had finger-painted the words "God Hates Homos" in blood on the door over the bird. I knew immediately what it was -- another warning, most likely from the same people who'd beat Fargo. The use of the peacock wasn't lost on me either -- it was how Bellows referred to gay folk on numerous occasions. He likened us to the delicate, graceful, colorful birds that weren't good eating, made a lot of noise, and shit all over everything.

  It explained the noise Hank thought he heard the night before. It wasn't the wind or his imagination. Somebody had snuck onto our property and nailed the damn bird to the front door of Outland, right under our fucking noses.

  I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, and Hank's gasp as he saw the bird. "Fucking bastards! Why can't they just let us be, Beaver?"

  "Go on back in the house, Hank. I'll clean this mess up."

  "No, you don't need to do this yourself. I'll help you. Sweet Jesus, Beaver! I'm sure getting tired of this shit," Hank said. He reached out and yanked the bird down, holding it by its long, blue-green neck. He looked over toward the dirt road that led down to the main highway. "I'm about ready to pack it in, once and for all. Maybe we should think about moving. Sell this place, buy a nice little trailer down in Florida or Arizona. Retire. Learn to play fucking golf."

  "That what you want, Hank?" We'd talked about retiring to Heaven's Waiting Room down there in sunny Florida, but not seriously. Not soon. Not ever, after we'd opened Outland.

  He erupted, and I realized that all the anger and resentment and fear that I'd been swallowing since Fargo was attacked had been inside Hank, too, simmering, boiling just below the surface. Somehow, I guess I thought I'd protected him from the worst of it. I hadn't, and it all came out in a rush, in a long string of swear words linked by death threats and insults, all aimed at Bellows and Matthews. He flung the bird as far as he could, then stomped after it, picking it up and throwing it again, all the while going on and on about what he'd like to do to the people who'd thought it would be a good idea to kill a defenseless bird and wreck the paintjob on the door. He wasn't making a whole lot of sense.

  "Assholes! Why did God give mouths to human beings that ain't much more than shitholes with legs? Just so they can run around spouting crap at the rest of us?" Hank raved, chucking that poor bird and tramping after it again. "Fucking bastards! Ruined the goddamn paint on the door, got my lawn all chewed up, and what in the blue fuck am I supposed to do with this motherfucker?" he yelled, letting the bird fly again.

  Of course, it wasn't the paintjob he was pissed off about; he knew as well as I did who that peacock was supposed to represent. Watching him tossing that bird around the yard, kicking at it, swearing like a sailor on shore leave, I wondered whether it might not be best to do as he said -- pack up and get out while we were both still in one piece.

  "Hank? Hank, you need to calm down," I said, chasing after him. Lord! The last thing I needed was for Hank to have another heart attack over a dead peacock.

  He spun around to face me, his eyes wild. "Stop telling me to calm down! You're always saying that, Beaver! 'Calm down, Hank. Don't get yourself riled, Hank. Sit down and take it easy, Hank.' I'm not a delicate little piece of china that's gonna shatter if you shake it too hard, Beaver! I'm a man, goddamn it, and right now I'm pissed the fuck off!" He accentuated his little speech by giving the peacock another good, hard kick.

  "I know that, Hank," I said, trying to be patient when all I wanted to do was throw him over my shoulder, tote his ass into the house, and make him sit still. He was breathing heavy, and looked pale and flushed at the same time. "Hank? You okay?"

  The steam went out of him, and he stood staring down at the peacock, breathing like an old steam horse and rubbing his right shoulder. "Yeah. Sorry. Didn't mean to take it out on you, Beaver."

  "You didn't. I know you're pissed off -- so am I. Let it rest for now. Let's go back to the house, talk some about what we should do." I didn't like his color, or the way he kept rubbing his shoulder. He was wheezing a little, and his lips had a bluish cast to them. I almost suggested that we pile in the truck and head down to the hospital instead, but I figured that would set him off again. Better to wait a couple of minutes, let him take a nitro pill, and see how he felt then.

  "Why won't they give it a rest, Beaver? What are we doing that's so bad?"

  "Nothing, Hank. We ain't doing nothing but being ourselves, and that's what pisses them off so much. They want us to disappear, to go away, or to pretend we're like them."

  He toed the dead bird. "They ain't right in the head. That has to be it. First Fargo, now this? They're crazy, Beaver, and that scares the shit out of me, because crazy folk are apt to do anything. They're unpredictable."

  "Yeah, I know it. Come on, let's get up to the house."

  Fargo went outside to dispose of the peacock while I scrubbed my hands and put the kettle on for tea. I thought a cup of that chamomile crap he kept would help sooth Hank. I was still worried, and decided I'd have a cup, too. I didn't particularly like tea -- I was a coffee man, myself – but I was feeling pretty shaky over the whole incident, and figured it couldn't hurt.

  Hank sat at the kitchen table and put a nitro pill under his tongue while I set out the sugar and milk. His color was coming back, and he was breathing easier, but his hands were still shaking. I poured the hot water in two cups, plopped in a couple of teabags, and sat next to him. Hank finally got up and washed his hands, as we waited for them to steep. He sat down again, staring into his cup, but he didn't say a single word the entire time, and I think that worried me more than anything else.

  I took a sip and burned my tongue; the cup rattled on the tabletop when I set it back down. "Hank, if'n you really want to move, I'll--"

  "You know I don't. This is our home, Beaver. Are we gonna let them run us off?" He shook his head, waving a dismissive hand at me.

  "I'm worried. I'd rather leave than have you keel over from a heart attack again. Do you want to live here worrying every minute of the day that somebody's gonna jump us?"

  "No, but we ain't cowards, neither. We've never tucked tail and run from anything in our lives, Beaver, and there were plenty of times over the years when things got hairy. You remember back in '78, or maybe '79, when that big ol' boy got in your face at that bar down in Memphis?"

  "Yes, sir, I do. I remember him swinging at me and you clipping him a good one. We spent the night in lock-up for our troubles. This is different, though. Nobody ever pinned a fucking death threat to our front door before, Hank. This ain't Memphis, and we're not twenty-one anymore.
We're both past fifty -- too old to be playing these games."

  I could tell by the look on his face that Hank wasn't too keen on being reminded of his age, but it was the truth, and it needed to be said.

  He looked me in the eye, his own peepers sparking with anger. "This is our home, Beaver. I may not be young, but I ain't old, either. I don't want to run. I don't want to let them win."

  "Maybe it ain't about winning and losing anymore, Hank. We've got more at stake here. I don't know that I want to spend my golden years prying peacocks off our front door, and always looking over our shoulders for trouble. Do you?"

  Hank grunted, and we stared down into our teacups, neither one of us wanting to be the first to say, "Okay, we give up. Let's get ourselves gone."

  Fargo came in, the door banging behind him, making both of us jump. "I got rid of it. Called Skeeter and Jethro, too. They're on their way over."

  "Shouldn't have done that, Fargo. Don't know if I want this getting around," Hank said, shaking his head.

  "They won't say anything unless you say so," Fargo said. "We got to do something, Hank! They near 'bout killed me, and now they're going after you two. Enough is enough!"

  We didn't say anything, just kept sipping at our tea. We knew we had a decision to make -- either close up shop and run, or stay and fight back, but for the life of me, I couldn't decide which one to choose.

  Skeeter and Jethro showed up within minutes of each other, both slamming into the house like a pair of twisters. It took a little doing to get them settled down, especially once they'd seen the threat written on the door and the remains of the peacock. There was a lot of shouting and swearing, and promises to God that they'd get revenge. Gonna get their guns, go hunting for the bastards, pin their asses to the goddamn door. Gonna write letters to the newspapers, get lawyers involved, gonna picket the First Corners Church.

  I got up and busied myself until they'd run out of threats and calmed down. Made coffee, took out the apple brown betty that Hank had made the day before, set it on the table with forks and plates. Considering that I'd just pulled a dead bird off the door and nearly had to take Hank into the hospital, it seemed silly to be puttering around the kitchen, but I had to do something. Hank kept quiet, sipping his tea, for which I was grateful.

  Finally, they shut up and sat, and the only noise was the clinking of spoons as they fixed their coffee.

  "What are you going to do about this, Beaver?" Jethro asked, setting his spoon down and staring hard at me.

  I fidgeted a little, feeling like a traitor, even though I knew I needed to be honest with them. "Me? I don't rightly know. Me and Hank... well, we were thinking of closing up Outland, maybe moving down south to Florida."

  "I didn't really mean it, Beaver," Hank said, shaking his head. "I told you I don't want to go. I was just upset about the damn bird."

  "I know it, but it's still an idea worth talking about," I said, ignoring the shocked and hurt looks on Fargo, Jethro, and Skeeter's faces. "No bar is worth putting up with this shit."

  "Outland is!" Jethro said, raising his voice. "It sure as hell is! Think they'll stop if'n you pack up and get? They'll just go after somebody else, Hank. Maybe next time it'll be Skeeter, or Little Pete. Maybe next time, it won't be no goddamn peacock they kill. They almost got Fargo the last time. Maybe next time, they won't fuck it up. Maybe next time, they'll actually kill somebody!"

  "We can't save the world, Jethro," I said. "We can only worry about our own selves." I felt like a worm saying it, but it was the truth. "We can't stop them."

  "So, you're gonna tuck tail and run? After everything they done, you're going to let them get away with it?" Fargo asked. The hurt in his eyes was almost too much -- I focused on my coffee, stirring my spoon 'round and 'round.

  "We don't want to leave, but we don't have no proof of who done it, Fargo. Hell, this was only a bird -- the police didn't even want to take a report after you'd been beat! How can we stop them?" Hank asked, shooting me a black look. I ignored it, although I felt my cheeks heat up.

  Skeeter had been quiet, but he suddenly perked up. "Y'all... I just got me an idea." He smiled, and I suddenly got worried all over again. "I just figured out a way to get the proof we need and show the whole world what these bastards are doing to us."

  Chapter Ten

  At first, I thought Skeeter done lost what little mind was rattling around inside his skull, but as we talked about it, hashed it out, I admitted he might just be on to something, but refused to dive in head first and maybe hit a rocky bottom.

  "Fuck, no! It's gonna be asking for trouble. Like wavin' a red flag in front of the bull -- he's gonna charge, and if you ain't quick enough, he'll run you straight through."

  "Beaver, it's perfect," Hank said, reaching across the table and patting my hand. "You know it is. Can't you see it? Lord, they'll be caught with enough egg on their faces to open a diner."

  "Didn't say it wouldn't work, Hank. Said it was going to be dangerous," I said, shaking my head. "Skeeter, ain't it gonna cost a lot of money? For the equipment and whatnot?" I asked. I figured I'd throw the lights full on, let everybody see where the holes in Skeeter's plan might lie. The biggest one I could think of at the moment was money, since none of us had any. Hank and me had plowed purt near everything we had into Outland, and I knew Fargo sure as shit didn't have two wooden nickels to rub together. I wasn't so sure about Jethro or Skeeter's finances, but I doubted they'd be featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Gay anytime soon.

  "Nah. I got everything we need," Skeeter said, looking as proud as hell of himself. "It's going to be easy, and they'll never suspect a goddamn thing, Beaver."

  Fargo whooped, surprisingly loud for a fella with his jaws wired shut, and smacked Skeeter on the back. "It's a great plan, Skeeter! We can end this shit once and for all!"

  He might just have saved all our necks -- or put them in a noose, I quickly pointed out. "What if doesn't stop them? What if it makes everything worse?"

  "We got to try something, Beaver," Hank said. "We owe them some payback -- for Fargo. For everybody they bullied out of town, for that matter, and for all the lives they wrecked over the years. Shit, we even owe them for the damn peacock. Poor bird never hurt nobody."

  "Yeah, just like us," Jethro put in. Everyone else nodded their heads.

  I was sadly outnumbered.

  I sighed, deep and heavy. It looked like their minds were made up, and I had to admit that I liked the sound of getting revenge. I liked the idea of putting a stop to Bellows and Matthews even more, although I still had my misgivings about the way Skeeter suggested we start things off. "Okay. If'n you're sure this will work, and everybody's agreed, then I guess we should give it a shot," I said.

  "Yes!" Skeeter and Fargo cried together, grinning, shooting out of their seats, and jumping around the kitchen. Even Jethro and Hank looked pleased, although they sat where they were and didn't jump up and down like Skeeter and Fargo. Looked like a pair of tall, thin, Mexican jumping beans, the two of them. Fargo's hand kept straying to his crotch, worrying at it until he had a tried and true boner poking up. Everyone noticed, of course, and the laughter that followed added to the party-like atmosphere.

  I felt like a parent stomping on their child's favorite toy, but I had to bring them all back down to the earth again. What we were talking about was serious shit, something that might blow up in our faces and leave us bleeding, and I needed to make sure they understood that if I thought there was any danger, any at all, I'd pull the damn plug on the whole fucking thing.

  "Now, hold on," I said, standing up and planting my hands flat on the table. I looked at each of them in turn, letting my gaze fall on Hank last. "Just so we're clear... if anything, and I do mean anything happens, if there's any inkling that somebody might be hurt, or things might spiral out of control, I'm shutting the whole damn thing down. Got it?"

  Hank smiled and nodded, and each man did the same in turn. "Sure, Beaver. I agree. The last thing I want is for somebody el
se to get hurt."

  "Nothing's going to happen, Beaver. You'll see. It'll be perfect," Fargo said with absolute confidence. I only wished I felt half as sure as he did. Inside, I was shaking like our old Maytag washer.

  I took a deep breath, and plunged in before I changed my mind. "Well, then, I guess we're agreed." I looked at Skeeter and Jethro. "You two put your heads together and work out the details. We'll meet back here tomorrow night, and figure out the best time to do this."

  "What about me?" Fargo asked, pouting a little, as if I were going to leave him out.

  "You still have healing to do, Fargo. I'm not about to let you out of our sight, not yet, and especially not now, with everything we're planning to do. I don't want you within spitting distance of Bellows or Matthews," Hank said firmly. I nodded in agreement, as did everyone except Fargo.

  "Come on, Hank! I got the right to be a part of this, as much as Skeeter and Jethro, even more!" Fargo whined, looking to me for support. He didn't get it.