You really want to know? I said. You told me handle it any way I want, just make him disappear. So that’s what I did.
I got to know, he said, so I can tell them uptown.
Well, they didn’t want to know uptown, he’d told me that before. He wanted the information only for himself. But if you didn’t want to end up like Jimmy H., you did what Big Billy told you to. And you never lied to him.
So I told him the truth. I put him where they’ll never find him, I said. The Meadowlands Stadium. Under the south end zone.
I thought he’d say that was a perfect spot, I couldn’t have come up with a better one. I thought he’d say, Good job, you’ll get a bonus.
Get the fuck out of here, he said, and don’t come around no more.
That was the last I ever saw of him. But that was all right with me. I didn’t want any part of his operation after that night, any more than he wanted me to be part of it. I’m still above ground, so he must not have talked to the boys uptown. Or if he did, they decided I’d done the job right even if Big Billy didn’t think so. Nothing ever happened to me because I was right: they never found Jimmy H.
It seems simple when you look at it that way. But it’s not simple. New Jersey is not a state of simplicity, the sinkhole town of Rutherford not a site of easy answers. New Jersey is a place of secrets, complex, rotten with tangled branching vines and rivers of ancient, heaving blood. Somebody said that to me once, I don’t remember who.
Well, anyhow, that’s about it. They tore the stadium down after thirty-some years and still they didn’t find what was left of Brother James, that’s how good a planting job I did. I don’t know how they could’ve missed finding the skull, some of the bones, but I guess they were in a hurry and careless with the demolition.
If it didn’t make me sick now, thinking about it, I’d have to laugh about the turf wars between the Giants and all those other teams right there in the shadow of that end zone, in the end zone itself, players after they scored a touchdown spiking the ball down right above where the boss’s head was buried—
What’s that you said?
No, I sure as hell didn’t make all of this up. You got no right to say that. I told you before, it’s the gospel truth. Give me a Bible and I’ll swear on it—
What do you mean, New Jersey is full of mooks like me, little guys with big ideas? I was never a little guy, I had connections, I knew secrets. That’s how I got the job to take out the boss. One of the biggest jobs ever, horrible as it was, and my disposal idea was just as big. Smart. I couldn’t have got away with it for thirty-five years if it wasn’t big and smart.
Yeah, I got away with it, but I couldn’t get away from it. You cops can’t imagine what a burden it’s been on me all that time—not the Meadowlands part, the killing and butchering part. How much of a toll it’s taken. That’s why I’m here now, that’s what I been trying to get across to you. I can’t live with it anymore. The nightmares, the awful bloody images—
What? No! This isn’t another false confession. It’s my one true confession. Don’t you see, don’t you get it? Those previous confessions of mine … substitutes, surrogates. I couldn’t make myself tell what I did to the boss, so I copped to other murders, other crimes instead.
I was trying to pay my debt with phony claims so I could finally have some peace. But now I know the only way to stop the haunting and the hurting is to reveal my secret, New Jersey’s secret, America’s secret—
What’re you doing, lieutenant? Who’re you calling?
Oh Christ, no, you can’t send me back to the Pines. I don’t belong in that place. I’m not crazy any more than John the Baptist was crazy.
Please, you have to believe me! I shot Jimmy H., I dismembered his body, I buried the pieces in the end zone at the Meadowlands Stadium. I did, I did!
KETTLE RUN
BY ROBERT ARELLANO
Cherry Hill
Ernie passes through the living room on his way to the kitchen. His father lies on the sofa, his head on the armrest, his hair that hasn’t been combed in weeks, his hand balancing a breakfast beer on the sofa back. How carefully he holds it. “Hey, Pops.”
“Hey youself.”
A girl in a gold leotard tumbles over a blue floor on TV. “What you watching?”
“Olympics.”
“Olympics are over.”
“Then reruns.”
He sees the bottle of rum his father finished last night on the kitchen table. Ernie pinches three cigarettes from the Marlboro box and grabs his backpack. “See ya later, Pops.”
He drives. Boxy brown Buick Skylark, his father’s car. The only advantage to the move is that Ernie drives. In Florida the age was sixteen but in Jersey it’s seventeen, so he is ahead of his class. He drives to school, drives Pervert home, and drives his father around. Too many DWIs.
He stops by A&P for breakfast: Donut Gems and OJ. At the edge of the parking lot he squeezes the tobacco from one of the Marlboros onto the back of Kevin Klausen’s algebra homework. He cracks the door to let the shreds fly away in the wind and looks to make sure there’s nobody near the Buick, then pulls a baggie from his jacket pocket and unzips the top. The fragrance hits him and he crumbles a bud onto the sheet, making a crease and funneling the shake down into the empty paper tube. He twists the tip and flicks the rattail against his thigh until the grass is tamped down to the filter, then he gives the end one more twist and yanks off the paper wick.
He starts the car, pulls out of the lot, pushes in the lighter knob, and puts the joint in his mouth. Just the filter between his lips gets him in the right state of mind. By the time the lighter is hot he is going thirty-five on Springdale Road. He smokes, cracking the window to keep air circulating so the smell doesn’t get in his hair, and flips on the radio to The Apple instead of ’PLJ because they play Twisted Sister and he’s sick of hearing “Born in the USA” all day.
Ernie drives into Cherry Hill and picks up Pervert. It’s a warm autumn morning and the windows are rolled down on Kresson Road when they breeze by the sign for Cherry Hill East High. “Hey, you just passed the school.” He shows Pervert the baggie. “Where’d you get that!”
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”
“You fucker! I knew I smelled something. You already smoked one without me.”
“You want to blaze or not?”
“Hell yeah! Let’s go back to that old Girl Scout camp.”
“There’s two more cigs in the glove compartment. Get to work.”
They roll up the windows and drive up the long, steep hill on the outskirts of town while Pervert twists a couple of rattails. They turn on Kettle Run, pass Tull’s place, and on into the pines, the pines, the pines. Ernie pulls onto the dirt road to the abandoned Girl Scout camp and weaves between the junk and the trees. He parks in front of the old bunkhouse and they smoke, Pervert alternating hits of pot with blasts from his inhaler.
They get out of the Buick and take turns firing rocks at bottles. “Hey, Ernie! Look at that fish!”
“This river is full of them.”
“How do they swim when it’s so shallow?”
“They skip.”
“I gotta take a shit.”
“Again? Jesus Christ, Pervert, why don’t you tell your mom to buy a fuckin’ toilet?”
Ernie sits cross-legged by the river. Sunlight reflected makes wavery projections on the rocks. His mouth is dry and cottony like the fake-sheepskin lining of his jacket. This water here is cleaner than any ditch in Miami, but still there are cows that graze upriver so he knows he better not drink.
When he first got to Cherry Hill, before he was labeled a loser, it had almost looked like Ernie might become a cool kid. Tío Tony told him: “No es como Miami where everyone Cubano and live outside. Aquí te dan pequeñas pruebitas: Joo comuniss o American? Joo like Coca-Cola o guava juice? Hambooger o taco? Bruce Espringsteen o Julio Iglesias? En Miami la gente knows the difference entre los Marielitos y los Cubanos de buena familia, pe
ro aquí no. No en this estate. Aquí en Nueva Jersey joo gotta get esimilation.”
In Cherry Hill it was all guesswork, all these little tests they gave you on the stupidest things. Ernie figured it out pretty quickly that if he could guess what they were thinking he would get past the bullshit and assimilate.
Kevin Klausen, the jock with the hottest girlfriend, invited him over to his house after school and they sat on a leather sectional in a big family room and played Atari. Ernie liked Kevin and wanted to be his friend. Kevin’s mom offered snacks. “Want an apple or a peach?”
Which one sounded less tropical? “An apple.” Mrs. Klausen smiled.
For lunch she made sandwiches. “Want cheese or peanut butter?”
“Peanut butter.” Definitely peanut butter.
She was actually a bit nervous, giving him all these little pruebitas, nervous he was a crazy Scarface, maybe, but also nervous for him. He was her token something-or-other. She wanted Ernie to succeed. To assimilate. When Kevin’s mom brought them Nutter Butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off, Ernie smelled her perfume and looked at her hips in red corduroy and thought she was too pretty for this planet. Cherry Hill, he thought to himself, is heaven.
Then one day he was hanging out after school with a bunch of the popular boys, jocks and cools, on the brick wall outside the equipment shed, flicking matches and talking about getting some firecrackers. Somebody’s big brother was taking the train to Chinatown at the end of the month, and Ernie put in a dollar for some bottle rockets.
Talk turned to fucking. A couple of the boys agreed that Mrs. Klausen was a woman anyone would willingly fuck. For a mother she was downright fuckable. One kid put the question to Ernie. “I’d fuck her. Wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t have much concept of what would really be involved in a fuck, but Ernie knew that this woman, unrivaled among the mothers of Cherry Hill for the sweetness of her perfume and for her shapeliness in bell-bottoms, was someone he would like to hug, and hug was near enough phonetically to fuck that, given the opportunity, he would give it a try. Ernie said, “Yes.”
Kevin walked up. “Hey, Kevin, Ernie wants to fuck your mom.”
“Boat person, you suck! Why don’t you go back to Cuba?”
Ernie flushed. “My parents came over on plane” was all he could say. He could have added that it had been more than twenty years ago and he was born in Florida, but that wasn’t the point. It’s 1984, and everyone, even kids, knows what kind of trouble Ernie’s people have been causing for the past four years since that hillbilly Carter invited them all to come over on their inner tubes.
There was that predatory gleam in Kevin’s eye. “Hey, Fidel, why don’t you go smoke a cigar?” All the boys laughed. It could have been Speedy Gonzalez, Ricky Ricardo, Pepé Le Pew, or any other caricature of alien origin, but it happened to be Fidel. “Feedel! Fee-del!” The other boys joined in the rhyme. “Fee-del! You smell!” At that moment, Ernie knew he was never going to play with these kids again. He wanted that dollar for his bottle rockets back.
The next day Kevin started picking on Ernie in gym and making him do his homework. Now Ernie’s only friend is somebody everyone calls Pervert.
Pervert comes back to where Ernie is sitting. “You look like a Indian.” He rinses his hands in the river, cupping them and slurping some water.
“Cows shit in that water.”
“I don’t see no cow shit.”
“You don’t see it, that’s the point, but upriver there’s big cow patties getting dissolved.”
“I don’t taste it.” Pervert shrugs, slurps some more. “Let’s blaze this last one before we go to school.”
“Then we won’t have one for after.”
“We’ll pick up a soda can at lunch and I’ll make a pipe for the roaches. I can’t take fuckin’ English class without being majorly baked.”
Suddenly, out of nowhere comes a big pickup truck, a black F-250 roaring up the dirt road with blackout tinting on the side windows. Ernie sees through the windshield who’s in the passenger seat. “Tull—what the fuck is he doing out here?”
Pervert groans. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“Oh shit! And Keith’s driving.” Keith, a mean fucking twenty-year-old.
Pervert sinks in his seat. “Shit.”
The F-250 stops, blocking the Buick, and Tull gets out. Tull in filthy, fuzzy slippers, bright orange gym shorts, and sleeveless sweatshirt, dingy gray like a river, his doughy upper arms seeded with blackheads. Count these to avoid looking at his bloodshot blue eyes, his candle-stub nose, odd plugs of hair not definable as a beard. “Not you fuckin’ homos.”
Ernie does the talking. “We’re not homos.”
Tull bellies up to where they’re sitting. An oily matt of hair bursts from each armpit, tucked up in there like two cheeseburgers. “Then what’s the fuckin’ problem?”
“No problem.” Offer them a hit. Or don’t offer them a hit. They’ve got the best shit. “Just smokin’ weed.”
“Whose weed you smokin’?”
“What do you mean whose weed?”
“Someone’s been topping our plants.” Ernie wants to say, What plants? but it makes too much sense: them being out here in the Pine Barrens, their aggressive roll-up. This is where they grow. Ernie shoots Pervert a look, sees him shaking, and knows he stole some pot. It is a fuckin’ problem.
Keith gets out of the truck. Handsome, sleepy-eyed Keith. “Give me your keys.” Shit. Give them your keys and they got your car. And then you’re stuck. Here. The lonely quiet of wind blowing high in the pines. The far whoosh of cars out on Kettle Run.
Ernie gives him the keys. Keith goes back and checks the Buick, looking in the glove compartment, under all the seats, popping the trunk, even looking under the spare in the wheel well. Tull shakes Ernie down, checking all the pants pockets. He finds the little bag of weed in Ernie’s jacket. It’s just the Marlboro rattail and a couple of cured buds, what’s left of a nickel bag Ernie got from Keith. Tull keeps it.
Pervert is next. Tull works him over roughly and Pervert squirms like he’s getting tickled. None of this makes sense. Tull is their loser friend, but he goes at Pervert savagely—front pockets, back pockets, jacket. He finally plunges his hand down Pervert’s underwear and Pervert squeals. Ernie watches as Tull pulls out a wadded-up piece of paper—Kevin Klausen’s homework. Tull unfolds it, holds it up for Keith to see. Ten or twelve big buds, freshly cut. “You little shits.”
* * *
Yesterday they stopped by Tull’s trailer before school. A homemade sign on the gate features a cameo of a handgun: Tresspassers shall be greeted by Smith n Wessin. Pervert got out, the cold odor of exhaust in the air. He swung open the gate and Ernie pulled the Buick up the drive. Pervert shut the gate and got back in. They drove up to the trailer and Ernie cut the engine. Vicious dogs barked and growled from a ruined cage choked by wisteria vines.
They had met him at Luigi’s playing pinball, another loser from another generation. Tull had largely given up socializing with people his own age and concentrated on a world of never-ending adolescent pleasures: marijuana, video games, and BB guns.
Tull’s trailer door had No Soliciting, NRA, and FOP stickers. Pervert punched out the secret knock, five steady taps and one more delayed—the “Aqualung” riff. Closed curtains quivered at the far end of the trailer. Tull would look out all four sides before throwing two padlocks and lifting the four-by. Pervert snorted. “You could break through these walls with a rusty can opener.”
Tull opened the door and they were hit with the smell: onions, rotten bananas, and marijuana. “You leeches. You mooches.” They came in. “You wanna smoke?”
“Only if you are.”
“Fuckin’ couple of kiss-ass bloodsuckers, you know I smoke all day. Here, clear this bowl.” Tull didn’t pack them greens, but his pipe, passed without ceremony or comment, was amply resinous. With Tull this guaranteed a dark, funky mind-blow. “Wanna shoot?”
They hiked in
to the pines behind the trailer, Pervert wheezing from the walk. They shot at rats and empty cans of Tab and Pabst.
Tull said, “You know, you could kill someone with a pellet gun.”
Pervert snickered. “Yeah, if you hit him over the head with it enough times.”
“You want to try something really hard?” Tull reached into his shorts and pulled out a handgun.
Pervert shrieked. “Sweet!”
“Forty-four caliber. You ever hold such a thing?”
“I want to try it.”
“Fifty cents a bullet. You can shoot two for a dollar.”
“You want to try, Ernie?”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty fucked up.” He was thinking, I don’t like this.
Ernie plugged his ears and Tull took the first shot, knocking over a big rock. Even with fingers pressed tight against his skull, the concussion punched Ernie in the chest and left his heart pounding to get out. It was louder than an M-80, maybe as loud as an M-160—a half-stick of dynamite. Ernie’s buzz turned black. He wanted to be out of there.
Pervert took the second shot, blowing a huge chunk off a pine trunk and knocking himself on his ass in the deadfall and rotting leaves. “Holy fuck! Fuckin’ awesome!”
Tull grinned. “You ever hold anything like that?”
Let’s get out of here, thought Ernie. Let’s go back and say we never saw this.
Back in the Buick and out the gate, Pervert showed Ernie a handful of roaches and pot crumbs he had picked from the carpet in Tull’s trailer.
“I don’t know why you do that, Pervert.”
“He doesn’t even notice.”
“He puts his naked ass on that rug, you know.”
“Roll up your window.”
“Check the glove compartment. My pops should have a cig in there.”
Pervert came out with a loose Marlboro and pulled a piece of paper from Ernie’s notebook: Kevin Klausen’s homework. “That kid’s an asshole, Ernie. Why do you do his shit?”
“You have no idea what it’s like to get sat on in front of all the girls in gym.”
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