Black Hammock

by Michael Wiley

  Mom turned to go back upstairs.

  ‘We’re still here,’ I shouted. ‘We still matter.’

  Twenty minutes later Edgar Allan and Paul the driver came downstairs with the overnight bag. Cristofer grinned at Paul. Made a chirping sound. Ran to him. His puppy. Paul hugged him to his big chest. Said, ‘Terrific kid.’

  ‘You left him outside all night,’ I said.

  Paul said, ‘This is a problem?’ He carried the bag out to the porch. Cristofer behind him.

  ‘You’re going?’ I asked Edgar Allan.

  ‘We seem to be unwanted here,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘We’ve got no breakfast. Just a couple of slices of bread. Sorry this didn’t work out.’

  He went to the counter. Got a slice from the plastic bag. Bit off a piece. ‘It worked in its own way,’ he said.

  I asked, ‘What way is that?’

  ‘Your Mom answered some of my questions,’ he said. ‘She clarified my understanding.’

  ‘All the paintings burned,’ I said.

  ‘There’s that.’

  ‘There’s no bright side,’ I said. ‘Not around here.’ I picked up the last apple from the counter. Took a bite. Handed the rest to him.

  He took a bite also. He said, ‘And I got to meet you.’

  ‘And now you’re leaving,’ I said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You could stay,’ I said. ‘For another day or two.’

  ‘What would Walter say?’ he asked.

  ‘Screw Walter,’ I said.

  He said, ‘I’ve got to get back. Responsibilities. Business.’

  ‘The dead can’t wait?’

  ‘They’re surprisingly impatient,’ he said.

  I ran my fingers up my thigh.

  He looked pained. ‘That would be a very bad idea.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘A long story,’ he said.

  I wanted to go to him. I said, ‘You have a lot of stories that you never tell.’

  ‘And you like stories.’

  ‘For a long time they’re all I’ve had,’ I said.

  He ate the apple. ‘Where are the other pictures of your father?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Other than the one your Mom keeps on the bookshelf,’ he said. ‘Did she throw them out?’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ I said.

  ‘Where are they?’ he asked.

  ‘In the attic,’ I said. ‘Mom put them in a box.’ I’d seen the box when I’d climbed up to get my dad’s books.

  ‘You ever look at them?’ he asked.

  I said, ‘What good would it do?’ The truth was I was afraid to see them. Afraid of how I would feel when his face looked back at me.

  Edgar Allan said, ‘It would be doing something. That’s all.’

  The screen door swung open and Paul the driver and Cristofer came inside. I let my dress drop down on my leg.

  Paul showed us his hands. Engine grease on his fingers. ‘Car won’t start,’ he said.

  ‘Can you fix it?’ Edgar Allan asked.

  ‘Someone cut the distributor cables and alternator belt. I don’t know what else.’ Paul looked at me like I might have done it.

  I looked at Cristofer. He was staying close to Paul. He could kill chickens and he could light a fire. I didn’t think he could cut up a car.

  I called up the stairs for Walter and he came down in his tar-stained jeans. Shirtless. Barefoot. His hair and beard mashed. I told him, ‘Someone wrecked their car.’

  ‘What the hell,’ he said. And he went to see. After he looked at their Taurus he went to his pickup. Sprang the hood. Looked inside. ‘Goddamn it,’ he said. He went to Mom’s car and checked it too. All of the cables and belts and wires were cut. Snipped neat. Taken out. So you couldn’t splice the ends together even if you knew how. Walter sucked his lower lip. Then he turned on Edgar Allan. ‘You did this?’

  Edgar Allan looked shocked. ‘Why would I—’

  ‘You come here uninvited,’ Walter said. ‘You all but break into our house.’ Once a fury lit inside of Walter you had to let it die of its own. ‘I know your game,’ he said. He charged into the house.

  ‘What now?’ I asked.

  Edgar Allan’s face was red. He said, ‘Call some tow trucks?’

  But Walter came back with his .22. He sat on the porch steps with the gun on his lap. A guard against invisible armies.

  ‘What good will that do?’ I asked.

  He stared at the cars and the pickup. Their hoods yawning. He looked at me. He looked at Edgar Allan. He chambered a bullet and sighted the rifle on the Taurus and pulled the trigger. A dimple sank into the passenger door. Green paint sprayed into the air.

  That kind of thing could lead to blood. But Edgar Allan and Paul laughed. Cristofer looked at them. And laughed too.

  Walter glared at Edgar Allan. ‘I want you away from this house,’ he said.

  Edgar Allan grinned at him. ‘I want to go,’ he said. ‘I’m ready to. But someone—’ He pointed at the Taurus.

  ‘Who?’ Walter said. Like Edgar Allan had wrecked the car himself.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edgar Allan said. ‘Why not you?’

  Walter pointed the .22 at Edgar Allan’s knees. ‘Or your wife,’ Edgar Allan said. ‘She seemed happy with me here until her studio burned. Maybe she doesn’t want me to go.’

  Walter chambered another bullet. ‘You think this is funny?’

  Edgar Allan said, ‘Yeah. When someone reacts to a little vandalism by shooting a car, I’ll laugh.’

  Walter swung the gun. Aimed at the Taurus. Pulled the trigger. A crack jagged across the passenger window. He chambered a third bullet and said, ‘It isn’t funny.’

  Edgar Allan said, ‘Your neighbor dislikes you. Could he have done it?’

  Walter said, ‘Lane Charles may be a lot of things and he’s got no fear. That’s for sure. But he isn’t a vandal or an arsonist. All these things happened after you came. I don’t like you. And I don’t believe you came here because of Kay’s paintings.’

  ‘What does your neighbor suspect you of?’ Edgar Allan asked.

  Walter cocked his head. Like he didn’t know what he was looking at. He said, ‘There are various kinds of stupid. Stupid ignorant. Stupid foolish. Arrogant stupid. It seems to me that you’ve cornered all of them.’

  ‘Can I use your phone to call a tow truck?’ Paul asked.

  Walter turned on him as if he would take him on next. But he said, ‘Call for three. And get a taxi for this sonofabitch.’

  ‘I don’t get paid unless I take him back to Atlanta,’ Paul said.

  ‘Your problem. Not mine,’ Walter said. He turned back to Edgar Allan. ‘Do what you want. Walk home if you need to. But you aren’t staying here another night. I swear to God I’ll shoot you if you enter this house.’

  In the middle of the morning the tow trucks came. They hooked up the cars and the pickup and drove out over the hill. Then Edgar Allan and Paul walked to the oak tree where Mom’s studio had been and they sat in the shade of the trunk. Cristofer climbed on to the trampoline and started bouncing. High and higher. Like he was trying to go up to the sky and touch the stars. He grinned at Paul and laughed and laughed at the stretch and strain of the jumping mat and the screeching and groaning springs.

  The clouds thickened and darkened. Mist started to fall. Walter came from the house and put wood in the kiln and fired it. The smell of tar filled the air. When Tilson walked into the yard looking like he’d spent a happy night in the arms of another man’s wife Walter swore and sent him away. But as Tilson left he stopped at the oak and talked with Edgar Allan. It was all whispers. Tilson looked angry enough to kill.

  Then Mom made a sound inside the house. A singing. A moaning. Something of both. I went in and found her in the bathroom. She was swaying in front of the mirror. Singing. Moaning. From deep in her throat. She had scratched the scabs off her face and was bleeding again. A bottle of Windex s
tood on the back of the toilet. The mirror glass shined under the overhead lamp. Mom craned her neck and looked at her reflection from different angles. As if the right one might show her something she was missing.

  ‘This is messed-up,’ I said.

  ‘I have no paint left,’ she said. Like that was an excuse. And she looked around as if searching for some.

  ‘You need a doctor or a priest,’ I said.

  She saw her pack of Newports on a bathroom shelf and she shook a cigarette into her fingers. And lit it. She took a deep drag. ‘No brushes either,’ she said.

  ‘We’re out of all kinds of things,’ I said.

  She blew smoke out at the mirror.

  ‘We’ve got no food,’ I said. ‘Except for canned stuff and about a half box of crackers.’

  ‘Leave me,’ she said.

  ‘Food or paint,’ I said. ‘First things first.’

  ‘Leave,’ she said. ‘Please.’ She looked at the mirror and started swaying.

  So I went back to the porch and got Great American Stories. I paged through until I found something I liked. Then I went across the yard to where Edgar Allan and Paul were sitting. I read aloud. If Mom could act messed-up so could I. I read, ‘After a time, a little dark-brown dog came trotting with an intent air down the sidewalk. A short rope was dragging from his neck. Occasionally he trod upon the end of it and stumbled.’

  ‘I’ve never known anyone who has trod,’ said Edgar Allan. ‘Especially not a dog.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘The dog hesitated for a moment, but presently he made some little advances with his tail. The child put out his hand and called him. In an apologetic manner the dog came close, and the two had an interchange of friendly pattings and waggles. The dog became more enthusiastic with each moment of the interview, until with his gleeful caperings he threatened to overturn the child. Whereupon the child lifted his hand and struck the dog a blow upon the head.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Edgar Allan.

  When Daniel Turner called again from the bridge I said he shouldn’t have come back. We didn’t need him. And Walter had told me not to open the gate.

  ‘I’ll wait until you do,’ he said.

  ‘Hope you brought a magazine or a big crossword puzzle,’ I said. And hung up.

  He called again. Asked, ‘Did your brother come home last night?’

  I said, ‘I told the operator to throw out my message.’

  ‘She ignored you,’ he said.

  ‘Well he came home,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘What’s going on now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Other than someone cutting the wires on our cars.’ I kept Walter’s and Mom’s latest craziness to myself.

  ‘Let me in,’ he said.

  ‘I can bring you a snack,’ I said. ‘If you like crackers and canned beans.’

  ‘Let me in,’ he said again. When I didn’t answer, he added, ‘Something bad is going to happen. This is how it was before your dad disappeared.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘They had visitors,’ he said. ‘Your dad and mom did. Men with bad histories and records of violence. They came to see your dad. Then your dad’s car was wrecked.’

  I’d never heard of that. I asked, ‘What happened to the car?’

  ‘Something with an axle if I remember right,’ he said. ‘A week before he disappeared he rolled the car as he pulled from your driveway on to the road. If your next-door neighbor hadn’t been coming home he would’ve drowned in the ditch.’

  I’d never heard this either. ‘Lane Charles saved him?’

  ‘That time he did,’ he said.

  ‘That time?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me in,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t.’

  He asked, ‘Who are your visitors?’

  ‘They’re OK,’ I said.

  ‘What do you know about them?’ he asked.

  Just what they’d told me. Not even that. I said, ‘I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Let me in,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for checking on us,’ I said. And I hung up.

  In the evening I ate a can of corn and a jar of artichoke hearts. I shared the last of the crackers with Cristofer. The garage had called and said the Taurus and Mom’s car would be ready the next morning. The truck the following afternoon. They would call when they’d finished the work. The rain came down hard but died to a mist again as the sun set. My friend Martin called and asked me to meet him at the bridge. ‘If you’ll bring me a hamburger I’ll meet you anywhere,’ I said.

  ‘What would you do for the hamburger?’ he asked.

  I said, ‘Don’t be an asshole.’ But then, ‘Anything.’

  An hour later he called again. Said he was stuck somewhere with a keg of beer and could we meet tomorrow night?

  ‘Asshole,’ I said.

  I went to bed. The wind had picked up outside and a hard rain started to fall. Edgar Allan and his driver were sitting in it. I felt like crying. I lifted my nightgown. Circled my fingers on my thighs. High and higher. Stopped. I was disgusted. With myself. With Mom. With Walter. Disgusted and disgusted. Mom had had three loves ever since I could remember. Her painting. Herself. And Walter. I couldn’t really tell the difference one from the other. She painted self-portraits because she loved herself and she loved Walter because he loved her as much as she did. It wasn’t that she didn’t think about Cristofer and me. It was more like we were parts of herself that she didn’t especially like. Extra hairs growing around her nipples. Sores on the inside of her lips. Not that she would cut off her nipples or lips to be rid of us. But she would prefer she didn’t have such annoyances. And Walter? Ever since I could remember he had moved through the house with his tar-stained jeans and tar-stained arms like a mean spirit. Saying, Thou shalt not.

  Me? Ever since I could remember I’d had an itch that started in my thighs and in my head. And no matter how I rubbed or scratched or scraped it the itch came back stronger than before. I knew I needed to do something to satisfy it. But I didn’t know what that thing might be.

  So the wind blew across the tar roof. And the rain fell. And tears filled my eyes. And disgust filled my belly.

  I got up and went downstairs. Cristofer was lying on the floor by the green chair. A dog at its master’s feet. Maybe no one had told him the bedroom was his again. When I opened the door to the porch the wind and rain stung my face and arms and legs. Black clouds rushed overhead. Shifting and changing shapes. One dark animal into another. Rain slapped the house. On the ground dark streams and pools rippled in the gusts.

  I ran barefoot into the yard. When the wind eased and the head of the oak swung up toward the clouds I saw Edgar Allan lying in a puddle by the trunk. His knees pulled to his chest. His arms around his knees. His head tucked down. A black egg in the night. ‘Hey,’ I said.

  He didn’t move.

  I put a hand on his wet neck and he jerked. Wild-eyed.

  He breathed hard and shivered but when he saw me he said, ‘Pretty – night.’ Thick-tongued.

  ‘Where’s Paul?’ I asked.

  He looked around. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said. I helped him to his feet and walked him to the house.

  ‘We can’t,’ he said.

  But I brought him on to the porch and into the front room. Got rags for him to dry his face. Led him upstairs to Cristofer’s room. Water dripped from his pant legs. His clothes smelled like the wet earth. He looked at Mom’s closed bedroom door. ‘Where do they keep the other guns?’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

  He said, ‘Where are they?’ He sounded confused.

  ‘Be quiet and he’ll never know you’re here,’ I said. ‘In the morning I’ll sneak you back outside.’

  In the dark his eyes shined like a starving man’s. He kissed my cheek. His lips wet and cold. Then he went into Cristofer’s room and pushed the door closed.

  I went back to my room. I put on a dry n
ightgown. Climbed into bed. I felt happy and tired. What if Walter found Edgar Allan in the house and hurt him? The nightmare that Mom had been expecting week after week and month after month as she Windexed the windows would have arrived. She would realize that she’d been sharing her bed with it all along. Daniel Turner would come back. Walter would be unable to keep him outside the gate. Other policemen would come too. They would poke and prod Walter. Would they arrest him? Maybe not. A man and his castle and all that. But they would turn him inside out.

  I was getting ahead of myself. In the morning I would sneak Edgar Allan downstairs before Walter came out of his bedroom. Or if Walter got up first we would wait until he went out to the pine woods. There would be no hurting. No turning inside out. The garage would return the Taurus. Edgar Allan and Paul would drive out over the hill. Life would go back to the way it had been. For better and worse and worse and worse.

  I slept. And when I next awoke the sky was still dark but the rain had stopped. I got up and opened the window and watched the clouds sliding over the earth. The air smelled sweet of rain and salt and ash and wet soil. I wondered whether I should wake up Edgar Allan and take him back outside. Or sneak into Cristofer’s room and climb into bed with him.

  Then over the drip drip drip from the roof and the dying wind another sound came. It came from far away like the sound of motorboats out on the ocean. It was there and then not there and then there again. The sound came from down-island by the bridge. Engines without mufflers. Beating the moist air. It came close and closer. It rose to a roar. Then it was out on the road alongside our land.

  The noise died. And the night was quiet again except for the dripping roof and the breeze. Then there was a slamming. Metal breaking. And the engines roared.

  A jacked-up yellow pickup came over the top of the hill into the yard. With oversized tires. A roll bar over the bed. Floodlights mounted on the roll bar. Followed by a red pickup and two motorcycles. The headlights glistened off the black dirt and the standing water. Spray shot from the tires.

  Doors slammed shut throughout the house. I ran into the hall and tried Mom’s room but she and Walter had locked themselves in. I pounded and asked, ‘Is Cristofer with you?’

  They didn’t answer. I ran downstairs. The pickups and motorcycles circled the house. Their headlights flashed into the front room. Then dropped it back into darkness. I crouched by the window and watched through the lights. Two thick-legged men rode the motorcycles. They wore blue jeans and black jackets. Soaked with rain and mud. A woman with a black ponytail drove the yellow pickup. Three German shepherds rode in the bed of the red pickup. I couldn’t see inside the dark cab of that truck until one of the motorcycle headlights flashed on it. Paul the driver was at the steering wheel.